


Hermione Granger and the Impediment to Happiness

by Wrathernice



Series: The Mirror's Keeper [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-08-24 13:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8374174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathernice/pseuds/Wrathernice
Summary: Sequel to Hermione Granger and the Old Mystery. Hermione and Asher have been together for over a year, but all is not well: old enemies return, Asher faces the loss of her job and/or arrest as the Ministry discovers her heritage, and Hermione is determined to set things right. She finds that not all the challenges are external, and that perhaps dating a succubus is a bit more complicated than she'd thought..As always, input is welcome!5/23: Yes, I am still actively working on this, as much as mental illness and life allows. Mostly I have large chunks of story with not enough segues/bridges between them, so until I can fill in the gaps I won't be posting another chapter. I know you're still reading, and thank you!





	1. The Letter

The day at Hogwarts had dawned sunny, but windy, and as the hours had progressed it had only worsened. Asher Erised looked pityingly out onto the Quidditch pitch at the poor team who'd booked the hour to practice; it appeared to be Hufflepuff, and she chuckled. Though she had never bought into the House politics and stereotypes, the Quidditch captains surely did, and whoever captained Hufflepuff was exemplifying the hard work and dedication their House was praised for.

"Look at the poor things," she lamented as a small player was buffeted about by gusts. "They really ought to just go in and sneak some cocoa from the kitchens."

"As the Cup is approaching, I think you'll find that a slim possibility," came the wry voice of Hermione Granger. She didn't think much of Quidditch, but understood the gravity of the situation from the players' point of view. "Hufflepuff hasn't had a decent shot at it in decades. Besides, it's nearly summer-- cocoa would be too hot."

"Ever the practical one," the teal-winged magpie chimed in, rather uncharitably, from Hermione's bedpost.

"Practicality has its uses, Amon," she shot back. "For example, it's hardly practical for an animal that makes its habitat out of doors to be inside them." She hid a grin from the bird-- she knew as well as he did that the wind would bowl him out of the sky. "Unless, of course, it was someone's pet."

Offended, the bird fluffed his feathers and let them down again in a sign of disapproval, but Hermione's goal had been reached: he shut up. One could never tell him to stop talking and expect it to happen; one had to be rather more devious. She happened to know that "pet" was practically an epithet to the magpie, who considered himself an equal.

Asher smiled to herself at the exchange; a year ago, things between herself and Hermione had been tense, uncertain, and difficult, but now they had fallen into a more or less comfortable routine. If anything could be routine at Hogwarts.

They divided time between rooms, because staring at Asher's tower all the time-- unchanging except for the occasional migratory flora-- had become a bit boring after months, and while Hermione's quarters somehow managed to be feminine and austere at the same time, they had an excellent view of the quidditch pitch, and her bed was very comfortable-- and also had an excellent view of the pitch, if you had your feet at the headboard. Amon accompanied them more often than not, having decided that if he didn't tag along, his chance at regular, civilized meals would plummet. Their proposal to McGonagall about consolidating quarters next year had not gone well. Minerva aside, the wizarding world tended to look unkindly upon people like Asher and Hermione, or more often, not look at them at all and pretend they didn't exist. The discussion Asher had had with Hermione about this hadn't gone terribly well, either.

"Hermione, you don't get it," she had said, exasperated. "There's this sense of... Well, that witches and wizards... Not just should, but must plan on having children if they're going to bother falling in love. It's this fear that there won't be enough of us one day. No one says it, of course, but it's there, especially in the old families. They practically want you to procreate before you even meet." This last was said with not a small amount of venom.

"That's ridiculous," the ever-logical brown-haired woman had replied. "There are plenty of us. Hogwarts is certainly full. And we cheeky Muggleborns keep popping up."

"Look, you can't have failed to notice that nearly everything in our world is old," Asher had persisted, changing tacks. "Hogwarts is bloody ancient. Families have crests that have existed for centuries. If anyone knew I'd made my own, they'd laugh me out of whatever room I was in."

"Not me."

"Of course not you, you're Muggleborn. But if I showed that crest to the Malfoys or the Blacks or, God forbid, my uncle, they'd blast me for putting on airs. New laws with new thinking hardly ever come through the Wizengamot, it's nearly always spins on old ways. More restrictive, even."

"I see your point there," Hermione had conceded, having done rather a lot of reading on that subject. "I just don't see how we'd be hurting anyone."

"It's not about what actually is going to do any harm, don't you see? It's about how it's always been done. And we don't fit into that." Asher sighed. "Have you ever noticed how people like us simply aren't mentioned?"

Of course Hermione had noticed-- well, after she'd noticed her sexuality she had, anyway. She'd floated the topic with Harry and Ron once, offhandedly, and Ron had nearly choked on his drink. She recalled the scandalized look on his face and how he'd rapidly found another topic. "I just don't understand how Muggles are surpassing us in this area," she had said finally, chewing a lip. "My parents were a bit surprised, but I suppose with me being a witch they'd already had experience with taking surprises in stride." She had smiled fondly at Asher then. "Doesn't hurt that you're practically a Muggle yourself."

Asher had snorted and scoffed and that had been the end of the serious discussion, but she knew it had been on both of their minds lately. Asher banished her recollection and resumed grading the bane of her existence: essays. They were a necessary evil, she knew, but she despised them nonetheless. Still, she'd managed to have fun with this one; she'd told her students to find the twelve ways that the ingredients in a particular potion could explode if added incorrectly, when in fact there were only ten. She grinned at the tiny writing in front of her-- her most apt student in sixth year had become increasingly frantic on nine and ten, and had written three whole paragraphs on how he was sorry that he couldn't find the last two. "Herm, look at this one," she chortled. "Poor lad reminds me of you."

Hermione gave a small frown at the nickname and the implication and took the essay. After she'd looked at the title, she made the noise Asher had given her the moniker for and tsked as she skimmed through. "You're so mean. Even I know there are only ten." She noted that the boy did write in a way reminiscent of her own, but she kept that to herself in order not to give Asher more fuel.

"That's half the fun! Plus, my sixth-years are becoming complacent. I've got to keep them on their toes. At least I'm not using Snape's methods," she added with a bit of mischief.

"I'm not fully convinced they _were_ methods," Hermione muttered. She handed the essay back and wandered to the window. "Oh, the post is here. Wonder what took it so long?"

Asher lifted her head from the parchment to watch the owl wing up to the window. "Here we go…" she murmured.

The grey owl tapped just before Hermione thumbed the latch. It entered and landed on the post-perch, noticed Asher sitting nearby, and squawked, looking as if it might simply fly out the window again without delivering the letter clutched in its talon. Hermione reached out for the envelope, but the owl snatched it away, hopping from the perch to the low table at which Asher sat. It squawked again and flung the letter into her lap, then quickly made its exit.

"Clearly it's not my post," Hermione said lightly, closing the window again. She turned, ready to laugh with Asher over the owl's behavior, but Asher was staring at the unfolded letter with a blank face. "What is it?"

"Here," the other woman said, and shoved it into Hermione's hands as she rose from the chair. Hermione watched her begin to pace, and turned her attention to the letter with creased brows. The heading said it was from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

_Dear Ms. Erised,_

_It has come to our attention that you are a succubus, a non-human being classified under and subject to the regulations and restrictions of Law 5, section J. Per these current laws set in place by the Wizengamot, you must register and submit to an examination at St. Mungo's. Failure to respond to this letter will result in a fine and potential imprisonment. Failure to submit to the law will result in back-fines and further imprisonment. Please respond by 31 July._

_Sincerely,_

_Akers Allsopp, Being Division Head_

"You should show this to Minerva," Hermione said, watching Asher's face.

"I know, and I certainly will. What worries me is, how did they find out?" A frown was sprouting, and Asher's dark eyebrows pulled together. "The only people who know what I am wouldn't tell, or have no reason to. Even my uncle wouldn't dream of it unless I'd threatened him, because he's already broken several laws not reporting me in the first place."

They weren't given time to ponder this further, as there was a knock on Hermione's door. She went to answer, shooting a worried look at Asher. Surely the Ministry hadn't sent someone already? She opened the door, and the man who stood there was one of the last she'd expect. "Harry! You didn't tell me you'd be at Hogwarts."

He grinned at her. "I've just taken the position for Defense next year."

"Hell, really?" Hermione exclaimed excitedly. "That's--"

But Harry cut her off, his expression turning serious. "There's something else, too. Can I come in?"

"Of course," Hermione said, stepping aside. He entered, saw Asher, and paled.

Amon, who'd dropped down to read the letter, said darkly, "One guess as to why he's here."

"That's an interesting-looking bird," Harry said. "Hullo, Professor Erised. Is he yours?" The casual way in which he said this didn't quite match his face.

Hermione watched Asher worriedly. The other woman's face had gone carefully blank, almost pleasantly so, and she knew that this look hid fear or anger.

"He is," Asher replied calmly. She knew that the Boy Who Lived-cum-auror hadn't understood Amon's words, and just as well. No need to tip her hand.

"He's a bit scrawny for law enforcement, isn't he?" queried the bird, causing Asher to stifle a chuckle. "Never fear, the man-child is here!"

"Amon!" Asher chided. She sent him a warning look. "Sorry, Mr. Potter. Those are his hostile tones."

"Harry's fine," he replied. "He's not going to, er, attack me or anything?"

"He'd better not, if he knows what's good for him." An awkward silence fell over the room, and Asher quickly realized she was the source. "I'll just be going, then," she said after a few moments. Scooping up her essays, she said, "Welcome back to Hogwarts, Harry," and held out an arm for Amon. The bird didn't move. "Guess he's staying with you, Herm," she continued, and left the room, glad she'd at least know what happened next.

After she'd shut the door behind her, Harry turned concerned eyes on Hermione. "'Herm'?" he questioned. "She's your _friend?_ "

"Yes, she is," Hermione said indignantly. "What of it?"

He cast a silencing spell on the door and said, "Hermione, I came here to tell you what's been going around the Ministry about her. She's likely to lose her job; the Board is going to be furious. You were right. She's dangerous. She shouldn't be around the students."

"Harry," she said sharply, "I know exactly what she is, more than you probably do. As for the students, none of them have ever come to harm under her care, and she actually saved a boy's life end of last year."

"She's a succubus, Hermione. A bloody _succubus._ "

"Half, actually."

"There's no such thing," Harry retorted. "Maybe I was behind you in school but I've caught up, and I know there isn't."

"It doesn't matter, anyway!" Hermione's voice rose in frustration. "She's fine. She's a good professor and a better friend, and I'll be first in line to vouch for her, right after McGonagall."

"You'd better not tell anyone you knew," Harry said. "Cornelius Fudge is already in loads of trouble for not reporting her. He's her uncle, did you know?"

Hermione threw up her hands. "Of course I knew, she's my _friend._ "

"Dark company you keep," Harry scowled.

"Oh shut _up_. For Heaven's sake, know what you're on about before you presume to tell me what kind of company I should be keeping."

"I'm telling you this because I want you to be safe. I don't want you to be caught up in the media storm this will generate, and I don't want you to be her.. her victim!"

Hermione glared at him. "She's had ample opportunity to do me harm, and has never done so. She's a far better person than you make her out to be, and you know so little about her. The magical world has really got to you, you know? Are you going to be shunning Hagrid next, because of what he is?"

Her words must have stung, because Harry rocked back on his heels. "That's different, Hermione."

"How?" she demanded.

"Hagrid-- Hagrid _loves_ us, loves his students and friends.. He's done whatever he could to protect us."

"And one half-human is capable of love and loyalty, and another isn't?" Hermione asked coldly.

"Succubi don't love. They feed."

"She does love, and she doesn't feed."

"And how would you know?"

"Because she loves me. We're together," Hermione blurted, and immediately regretted it.

"Now you've done it," Amon inserted.

"You're-- you're--" Harry spluttered, having gone a bit red in the face. "Like.. snogging, and all that?"

Hermione almost laughed, but she was still angry. "If you must know, yes."

"Bloody hell." Harry sat heavily into the chair Asher had vacated earlier. " _Merlin,_ Hermione." His face when it lifted was bewildered, and after a few moments he managed, "What about Ron?"

Hermione snorted. "What about him? We haven't been together for over two years. Shouldn't have been in the first place."

Harry, his face still crimson, stammered, "So-- so you're in a relationship?"

Hermione raised her eyes upward and replied, "Has the definition of 'together' changed recently?"

Amon offered into the resulting silence, "He really doesn't catch on quickly, does he?" Hermione had to squash a grin, giving the bird a hard look instead. "Don't worry, I'm not about to reveal myself to a Ministry official. I've no need to be probed and questioned by curious wizards."

"That bird isn't thinking about eating me again, is he?" Harry asked, feeling this a safer topic.

Hermione's lips twitched. "I almost wish he would. It might give you some sense."

"What do you expect me to say? Last I knew, you were dating men, and now I find out you're not only snogging a woman, but one who's-"

"Think before you complete that sentence, Harry James Potter," Hermione interrupted sharply. "I don't expect you to understand why I'm with her, but I do expect you to respect my choices, or at the _very_ least, not lecture me about them."

Harry heaved a great sigh, resting his forehead on his hand for a moment before looking up at her again. "Look, I came to warn you that this is going to blow up, and quickly. She's going to be on the receiving end of a massive amount of bad press, and if they even find out you're friends, much less--" He stopped, then started again, "You know what the Prophet is like about you, me, and Ron. It's not going to end well. One of the board members' wives is in the Being Division, and I guarantee you that he's already found out and is drafting letters to the other members of the board, if he hasn't sent them off already."

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. "Okay, okay. Thanks for that." She pressed her lips together fretfully, then asked, "What could happen? How bad could it be?"

Harry twisted his lips in thought. "She's almost certainly going to lose her job. She could be arrested, if she doesn't do what the Ministry asks of her. If it gets really bad, she could be shunned." He looked at Hermione pityingly. "I'm sorry she's your friend. Things aren't going to be easy from now on." He lifted the Silencing Charm from the door and turned to leave, then hesitated. "I'll be around, alright? I'll keep you updated." With that, he opened the door and left.


	2. Invaded

Asher paced around McGonagall's office, paying close attention to Amon's account of what Hermione and Harry had talked about. Minerva listened with growing concern, jotting notes as he spoke. When the bird had finished, she sighed.

"Mr. Potter is right," she said regretfully. "I will do my best with the board, but since I haven't heard from them, I imagine Mr. Rummage is working them into a frenzy before contacting me. I wouldn't be surprised if they simply appeared here before long." She paused, thinking. "If that is the case, then having you in my office might work in your favor." She held up the letter from the Ministry. "If they know that you brought this immediately to my attention, perhaps they will not be so harsh."

"I'm going to lose my position, Minerva," Asher said dully. "I don't know who spilled the beans, but they've screwed me six ways to Sunday."

Minerva hadn't heard this phrase before, and lifted her eyebrows, but said, "Indeed they have."

Asher flopped onto a squishy armchair and scowled. "You know I couldn't have turned myself in. You know what it would have been like for me."

"I know," McGonagall said quietly. "Pretending you were a child out of wedlock from some other mother was a far better course."

"At least now I can stand up for myself. I'm smart enough and strong enough to take care of myself… and to disappear, if I need to."

"There will be no talk of that," McGonagall admonished firmly. "I will fight for you even if I am the only one to do so." She added deviously, "The Board doesn't know just how relentless I can be."

"Oh?" Despite the situation, Asher felt curious.

"Well, once, I made your uncle-- back when he was Minister-- completely change his mind about whatever the Board had asked him to do simply by staring at him."

"Oh, but he's a sissy," Asher said. "I've done the same thing."

"But most people present an argument first," Minerva grinned. "I stared at him without a word until he'd talked himself out, convinced himself it was a bad idea, and walked backward out of my office."

Asher's face spread into a wide smile as she imagined the scenario. "He's such an idiot," she chuckled.

They related a few more Cornelius Fudge stories, laughing or scowling over his general incompetence, until there was a knock at Minerva's door. "Here we go," Asher muttered for the second time that day.

McGonagall waved her wand at the door and it opened, revealing three Board members with angry looks on their faces. Asher noticed with a small amount of satisfaction that the anger flashed into fear and uncertainty at her presence. To her dismay, Draco Malfoy was among them.

The man had somewhat redeemed himself in the wizarding world, having submitted his mansion to intense Auror scrutiny and given intelligence to the Ministry about the remaining Death Eaters after Voldemort's demise; he had also donated a large sum to help those orphaned or left homeless by the Dark Lord. He'd married one of the Patil sisters, to everyone's surprise, but she seemed to have softened him a bit, and he was now known as a philanthropist. Still, Asher found, on the few occasions she'd had to deal with him, that he was a somewhat cold, irritating person, and given his current expression, it would take many more years for him to completely move past his upbringing.

"Sirs and madam," McGonagall began, once they'd all come in and the door had closed behind them. "A letter announcing your arrival would not have gone amiss."

"Considering the news, we decided not to waste any time, Headmistress," spoke the eldest member, a witch Asher knew was rather unfortunately named Thusnelde Woodbead. She was short and slim with a round face, squishy nose, and shrewd gaze.

"And what news is this?" Minerva replied shortly.

There was a pause, in which Asher could see Draco swallow nervously; it hadn't been that long since he had had McGonagall as a professor, and Asher gathered his voice had left him.

"You pretend ignorance when the 'news' is sitting right in your office?" demanded the other wizard, a tall, narrow-shouldered man with a broad face and thin neck.

"Perhaps a letter would have shed some light on this increasingly confusing situation, Mr. Rummage," McGonagall said briskly. "Professor Erised was consulting me on a personal matter."

"Pardon me, Headmistress, but can a matter be called 'personal' when it concerns the students?" Malfoy had found his voice, but he hadn't managed to insert the amount of indignance intended. "The Ministry has discovered that Professor Erised is not who she claims."

"Are you confessing to reading my staff's post?" questioned McGonagall sharply. "Or have you been sent by the Ministry?"

Another uncomfortable silence descended. Asher mentally cheered.

"My wife works in the Being Division." Mr. Rummage pulled himself up to his full height. "She alerted me to the presence of a dangerous, predatory non-human teaching at Hogwarts."

"You do realize I'm sitting _right here,_ " Asher inserted dryly. Minerva shot her a look, and she quieted.

"Dangerous? Predatory? Whose expertise do you reference when you make these claims? I recall not a one of you taking advanced Magical Creatures courses."

_Shots fired,_ Asher thought gleefully. 

"My wife, for one," exclaimed Mr. Rummage. "You are sheltering a succubus!" He dramatically pointed a finger at Asher.

"I _hired_ a succubus," Minerva corrected, unruffled. "And you are only half right. She is part human." She turned to Draco. "Mr. Malfoy, you were in Professor Erised's year. Do you recall her ever harming a fellow student?"

"Well, no--"

"Neither do I. Do any of you recall a student coming to harm in an incident for which Professor Erised was responsible?"

There was an explosion of responses.

"No, but--"

"Not _yet_ \--"

"So far--"

Minerva cut them all off with a wave of her hand. "Well, then, that's settled. How long have you been teaching here, Professor?"

"Nearly two years," Asher replied, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice at the furious, red faces of the Board members.

"And for many more, I hope," Minerva continued. "Potions marks have never been so elevated school-wide." She smiled tolerantly at the three visitors. "If that will be all, I do have some business to attend to." She gestured at the door.

Mr. Rummage swelled angrily. "That most certainly is not all!" he bellowed. "She is unregistered and a danger to the students! Parents will be pulling their students out by the dozen once they hear of this; she must be dismissed. We cannot allow it!"

Minerva seemed to freeze, slowly turning her head from Asher to the shouting man. Asher nearly shivered at the cool look in her green eyes; Mr. Rummage seemed to deflate as those eyes fell on him. Slowly, coldly, lending dangerous emphasis to each word, she said, "Name one incident in which my professor has harmed a student, Mr. Rummage, just one, and I shall comply." At his silence, she said again, "Name _one._ "

None of the Board members said a word. McGonagall let the quiet grow, staring at each of them in turn over her spectacles. When she finally spoke, it was as if a spell had been broken. "Should you find a genuine danger to my students, please do let me know. Until then." She turned away from them, seated herself behind her desk, and, without looking, waved her wand at the door, which opened meaningfully. Looking at each other helplessly, they filed out.

Once the door had closed, Minerva seemed to slump in her chair. "Albus always made it look so easy."

Asher grinned widely, her eyes sparkling with laughter. "That was brilliant, Minerva. Fucking _brilliant._ "

"And only the first round, I'm sure," the Headmistress added dourly. Then she chuckled. "Harby-- Mr. Rummage to you-- always did have a predilection for shouting. I thought I'd cured him of it in school."

"Think you might have this time," Asher laughed. She sobered as Minerva looked at her with worry.

"I think it best that you reply to the Ministry promptly, and schedule an appointment with St. Mungo's for as soon as you are able. Let's not give them any further excuses to call for your dismissal." McGonagall sighed heavily. "I feared this day would come. No one can hide forever."

"I know." Asher rose from the armchair, straightening her crumpled robes. "I'm just glad I have you in my corner." She offered a smile at the woman who was practically family. "Look, if you do have to fire me- I get it. I won't be mad."

"I certainly will be," muttered the Headmistress as Asher walked out. "You wouldn't _believe_ how difficult it is to find a Potions professor."


	3. Chapter 3

After Asher had flooed to St. Mungo's to set up an exam and penned a missive to the Ministry, and after a brief but loud conversation with her uncle, she ranted and raged her way around her tower. Hermione and Amon watched, reluctant to end up in the line of fire, instead whispering to one another as phrases like "hidebound idiots" and "prejudiced old bats" were shouted at no one in particular.

"I think she's taking it rather well," Amon commented, watching as Asher threw her miniature cauldron into the fireplace for a third time.

Hermione snorted, Charming the cauldron back to its rightful place once again. "This is rather well?"

"You should have seen her when Cornelius tried to tell her she wasn't allowed to join the Order, and attempted to stop her from leaving the house," Amon replied, snapping his beak in judgment. "He couldn't keep up with all the things she broke. And of course, she joined anyway, and not a thing he could have done about it; she was seventeen by that point and he'd signed away custody."

"Who do you think it was? Who told the Ministry?"

"I've no idea," replied the bird darkly, "but if I did, be sure they'd find their shoulders soiled and their faces pecked."

They watched a bit longer, until finally Asher picked up a massive pot containing a trembling plant. Hermione thrust her wand at it and it froze in place, the black-haired woman looking up angrily when it didn't move. "That poor Vestigial Worm Eater did nothing to you," Hermione said a bit sharply, easing the pot down to where it belonged. "I think you've had enough stomping about. Now drink this." She conjured a large decanter of a particularly strong Muggle spirit and shoved a glass of it into Asher's hand. "Sit."

Startled into obedience, Asher took a sip and sat in her desk chair.

"Now," Hermione said, leaning against the back of the couch, "we are going to figure this out."  
  


* * *

 

The offices were abuzz at the Daily Prophet. This wasn't anything out of the ordinary, of course, but the hum had elevated this evening: They had caught a whopper of a story.

"Gentry! You're on the Ministry angle! How could she have evaded notice? What will she have to do now she's discovered? That sort of thing," shouted Barnabas Cuffe, editor-in-chief. He then rounded on a petite, dark-haired woman. "Blake, you're on the Hogwarts beat. Find out what she's like in class, what the staff think of her, and dig up anything unsavory!"

"Can I help?" came a sharp-edged voice at the edges of Cuffe's vision. He turned, then smiled toothily at the blonde witch.

"Yes," he said slyly, "I believe you can."

The blonde witch adjusted her glasses, smiled back, and pulled a quill out of her bag.  
  


* * *

 

"For someone who believes she can't really trust anyone, you're being quite the optimist." Hermione brushed frizzy hair out of her eyes and lifted an eyebrow at Asher. "We've gone through every person on the list, and you keep saying that they wouldn't, but _someone_ did."

Asher's lips pressed into a frown, waving a hand dismissively. "Some things you just know."

Hermione rolled her eyes and walked to the window overlooking the Forbidden Forest. "Well, someone reported you, so we just need to follow the trail back to them. I'm sure there's a way to trace the chain of thought through the letters," she said with determination, her hands propping her against the windowsill. "If I could repurpose one of the spells they use on Dark Detect-- _oh_ \--" Asher had come up behind her and gripped her hips, causing her thought process to evaporate. The other woman now leaned against her, pressing her into the windowsill; Hermione could feel hot breath on the back of her neck.

"Have I ever mentioned," Asher said, nibbling on Hermione's shoulder, "how devastatingly _sexy_ I find your large and crafty brain?"

"Actually, size has-- no correlation--" Hermione began breathily, then gave up and leaned back as she felt lips and tongue move in a delicious line up her shoulder to her neck.

"We've been at this long enough," Asher murmured into Hermione's skin. "Time for a change of pace." Hermione turned in her arms and their lips met, quickly followed by tongues. Anyone looking in from outside could have seen them entangled and outlined by firelight; keenly aware of this, Asher drew the curtains and pulled Hermione away from the window to the couch.

She didn't want any interruptions.

Next day, a large tawny owl brought the Prophet bright and early, and Asher heard Amon chattering angrily from her bed as he argued with the owl. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and summoned her plush, non-holey robe, a Christmas gift from Hermione. She quickly tucked it around herself and entered the living area, where the two birds were hopping around each other and snapping their beaks in irritation.

"They're going to stop delivering if you don't quit harassing their owls," Asher yawned, digging some coins out of her top drawer. She handed the coins to Amon one by one, who cautiously deposited them into the owl's leg pouch.

"She was going to wake you, and I'm perfectly capable of taking a delivery, except you moved the money," argued the magpie after he'd finished. The owl dropped the paper and hastily took off out the window.

"Hermione put it there after last night's cauldron-throwing," Asher replied absently, unrolling the paper. "God _damnit,_ " she said with feeling.

There, smack in the middle of the front page, was a photo of her, looking irritated and waving her hand dismissively at the camera while walking away. "Danger at Hogwarts?" questioned the headline, but as she read through the main article, they made it seem not so much a question as a certainty. Everything was there- her father's death, her mother's imprisonment, and the truth of what she was. A side-column detailed her relation to Cornelius Fudge, and hinted at a conspiracy between him, McGonagall, and Dumbledore. There were quotes from students and parents, weighing in on her grumpiness the last school year.

Then, at the bottom of the page, she saw a heading that stopped her breath. "Hermione!"

Hermione stumbled out of the bedroom a few moments later in a tank top and undies, eyes sleepy but alarmed.

"Listen to this. 'Hermione Granger: Complicit in the Conspiracy or Erised's next victim?'" She scowled at the header, then continued reading aloud. "'Hermione Granger, once the golden girl of the Wizarding world, is rumored to spend a lot of time with the dangerously beautiful Asher Erised. When asked about the nature of their relationship, most of those this reporter spoke with claimed friendship, but a few hinted more. Always known to be attention-seeking, is Hermione Granger now dancing with the devil to bring the spotlight back onto her once more? Or has Erised corrupted her in service of her dark desires?' This one did all but say we're in a relationship."

As she listened, Hermione's eyes had narrowed; now she said, "Wait a moment-- give me that!" She snatched the paper from Asher, found the byline, and practically growled, "That rotten woman is at it again!" She pointed to the name. "That Rita Skeeter _bitch!_ "

Asher's face went blank with surprise; Hermione rarely swore, and even more rarely called people rude names. But the name clicked somewhere in her subconscious. "Wait-- the one who wrote that book about Dumbledore?"

"Not to mention she mocked up all sorts of drama our fourth year, during the Tournament," muttered Hermione. "I trapped her in a bottle and swore I'd tell she was an animagus if she didn't agree to my terms."

Asher grinned, her eyes dancing. "In fourth year? Suddenly I think my crush on you has extended back a few years."

Hermione gave her a brief smile, but her eyes were deep in thought. "There's no reason I couldn't do it again.."

"I doubt it would work this time, Herm," Asher said thoughtfully. "If she's writing this about you now, she must not be afraid of what you'll do anymore. Or she's got someone at her back." She sat as Winky brought out coffee and tea, picking up the mug and sipping from it inattentively.

"Thanks, Winky," Hermione said, lifting her teacup to her lips. Winky curtsied and hurried back behind the fireplace, presumably to fetch breakfast.

"Wonder how Minerva is faring," Asher said grimly. "I imagine her office looks like the Owlery just now."

"Yours is about to," Hermione said after parting the curtains. "Look."

Asher rose and saw a crowd of owls outside her window, great and small, snowy to brown, and let out an exasperated breath. "Might as well let them in, they're only going to shit all over the outside sill and scratch up the panes if I don't."

She unlocked the window, released the catch, and opened it wide. The owls streamed in, depositing their letters upon her desk, and one by one, flew back out again, screeching and squawking as they went. By the time the flurry was over, there were no fewer than twenty-three envelopes on her desk, four of them Howlers. She opened those inside a desk drawer and shut it on the noise, the yelling still painfully audible.

"Shouldn't be too long," shouted Hermione over the epithets and threats.

Asher ignored the letters' words willfully and sorted through the rest, resolving only to open those from people she knew or official post. The remaining envelopes were thrown in the fire. She was left with three letters, one from the Ministry, one from St. Mungo's, and one, surprisingly, from Ronald Weasley.

"Your old flame is weighing in," Asher intoned, sliding a finger under the flap. She opened the letter and snorted. "According to him, he's 'always known there was something wrong' with me and 'hopes I understand that he won't hesitate to bring me down' if he needs to."

"Oh that blustery idiot," Hermione groaned. "He's all talk. Well," she amended, "mostly talk. I wouldn't put it past him to pull something stupid. I do hope Harry hasn't told him about us." She bit her lip in worry.

"I guarantee he has," Asher replied after a moment, pointing to a passage in the letter. "Apparently, I've enchanted you to be my love-slave."

"Are you--" Hermione grabbed the letter, examined the relevant section, and let out a disgusted sound. "He's such a git. Feel free to ignore him. I do." She threw the letter down violently, then thought better of it and tossed it into the fire along with the others.

"Hey, I was going to respond to that," joked Asher.

"If anyone's going to send something back at him, it should be me," Hermione said, an angry glint forming in her eye. "I'll post a Howler. To his office."

"Better not. The last thing the Prophet needs is more fuel. You know how connected to the Ministry it is."

"Yeah," Hermione said dejectedly. "It was a nice thought though." She glanced at the two remaining envelopes. "What are those?"

"Instructions for my appointments, I'm sure." Asher opened them, glanced through each of them, then set them down again. "I'm to abstain from my potion before my appointment with St. Mungo's, and I have to bring my wand to the Ministry for registration."

"If they take it away, I'm sure I can convince Minerva to storm the castle with me."

"They won't, they just want proof I can do magic so I can keep it." Asher reexamined the letter from St. Mungo's. "And I'm to bring it to the hospital as well." She sighed gustily, glaring at the newspaper. "My appointments are tomorrow. I'm going to have to go in disguise."

"Not a bad idea," agreed Hermione.

"Your breakfast is getting cold," Winky said, startling them both. They brought their trays to the desk and ate slowly, each lost in their own thoughts.

When they'd finished, and had no more excuses, Asher stood and summoned her brush. "I'd better go see the Headmistress."

 


	4. The Ministry's Betrayal

As Asher had feared, Minerva had received even more mail than she had; parents were still sending letters even as she stood in the office. They'd gone over the morning's paper and events, filling each other in on what was happening. The Board hadn't contacted her again, but Minerva was expecting them to shortly. They hashed out a story for Asher to tell the Ministry and St. Mungo's before the appointments began; it was mostly true, with a few tweaks to protect the both of them. Asher left with assurances that any more press wishing access to Hogwarts would be rudely ejected, and all professors would be heretofore forbidden to comment.

The day passed excruciatingly slowly. Asher stayed in her room; she'd accepted Minerva's offer of a substitute with gratitude and stocked herself up on liquor. Perhaps not the wisest choice, but letters were still coming in every hour or so, and she needed something to do until the students were all tucked away for the night. She knew the rumors flying about were vicious; Amon had eavesdropped for her and reported back that she was purported to have three heads, be able to kill people with her gaze, and supposedly had already fled the country. She had a feeling he'd left out the worst of them.

Her clock dinged at her that evening, reminding her to take her potion, and she nearly did until she remembered she wasn't supposed to. She'd told Hermione to steer clear of her that evening because of the appointment next day. Sighing, she took the bottle of rum to bed and stayed there till morning.

After a brief meeting with McGonagall, Asher made the trip to the Ministry with the least public exposure she could manage. However, she couldn't avoid those walking along the street where the public entrance was. Most people looked away, afraid to meet her eyes, but some snarled rude names at her, and she even had to dodge a couple of spells. She entered the quiet of the giant lobby with marked relief.

She almost wished she'd been late when she was greeted by two hulking wizards and followed by them for the rest of her visit. Their initial stop was the offices of the Magical Creatures division, where she met, not with Akers Allsopp, but Harby Rummage's wife, Elvira. Asher sat in the small visitor's chair. She tried her best to be pleasant even as the witch scrutinized her while filling out forms. Occasionally, she verified information with Asher.

"This seems to be in order," she said crisply after filling out the last form, placing them in a file marked with Asher's name. "I need you to sign here, here, here, here and--" she flipped the page-- "here."

Asher pulled the parchment towards her and read through it, noting it was a punishable offense to use her power against humans and she was required to notify the Ministry if she changed her address or name.

"Is there a problem, Ms. Erised?" interrupted the witch impatiently.

"Not at all, Mrs. Rummage," Asher said, careful to keep her voice bland. "I just want to know what I'm signing."

"You'll have to sign it anyway."

"Of course," Asher replied, straining for evenness. "But I no longer have an excuse to be ignorant of the law, so I might as well read up." She mustered up the nicest, most harmless smile she could and aimed it at the other woman. She received only a nod in return, though she noted a flash of surprise on Elvira Rummage's face, as though she'd expected a snarl.

Asher finished signing, feeling the odd sensation of a magically binding contract settle over her, and slid the form back. "I'm sorry to have put you through all this," she offered.

Elvira eyed her sharply. "All this could have been avoided if you'd registered with us when you first entered the country."

"Look, that decision wasn't made by me," Asher said, regretting the irritation that filtered through her words. "I'm sorry to snap at you, I know you're just doing your job, but I wasn't of age when I got here, and I didn't know I had to register. I didn't even know what my mom was until I moved here. You can blame that on my father."

"Convenient, as he's dead."

Asher sighed and rested her forehead on her palm for a moment, praying for patience. _Really not a good plan to lose your cool with the Ministry official determining your fate,_  she warned herself. Finally, after several long moments, she felt calm enough to speak. "I know you have no reason to believe me, and many to do the opposite. Please, just know that I have been honest with you today." She lifted her gaze to the other woman's piercing brown-eyed one.

"Well," said the witch primly, but that was all she said; Asher didn't know what Elvira Rummage had seen on her face, but it had stopped her from making any more nasty comments. She blinked a few times, looked over the signed document, and nodded at it. "You're all settled then. You may go."

Next she was ushered to the Department of Magical Equipment Control and pushed into an office marked "Wand Division." It was inhabited by a sour-looking witch who didn't offer her name, and instead eyed Asher with a noxious mixture of disdain, fear, and hostility. She shoved a form across her desk, waved at it to indicate Asher should fill it out, and spent the time it took pacing behind her chair.

Asher dutifully answered the questionnaire, filling in size, wood, core, and the maker of the wand as well as the date she'd received it. She sensed that attempting pleasantness would give her no quarter here, so she simply signed it, shoved it back across the desk, and asked flatly, "What now?"

She was directed through a series of basic spells to prove her proficiency and questioned about the answers she'd given on the form. She'd aced every one, Asher knew, so when the witch finished inspecting it, she was horror-struck when the witch didn't return it to her, and instead placed it in a silver box, the lid closing with a thunk. Asher could hear a latch click.

"That's my wand," she gasped out, feeling wounded. "Why-- _why?_ "

The Ministry official gave a smug little smile and said, "We must, of course, verify that it is yours. Contacting the maker and obtaining his records will take time. It will remain here until we have done so." She swished her wand at the box, and it lifted into the air and slid into a slot in the wall Asher hadn't noticed before. The woman smirked. "We will, of course, keep it safe until it is returned to you." Her tone said she thought that was unlikely.

"But-- but I have to take it to St. Mungo's," Asher said feebly, her head spinning. How was she to survive the next few days without a wand? With its power in her hands, she could command immensely difficult spells, but without it.. She had never been able to pick up on wandless magic, as much as she'd tried, and while she was practically an expert at potions, they could only help her if she somehow knew ahead of time what one she would need and had enough time to brew it. Without her wand, she was defenseless.

"An oversight I shall attend to," she said, showing no real inclination to do so. "Take this letter." She held it out to Asher gingerly, between thumb and forefinger.

_I ought to touch her just to piss her off,_  Asher thought, taking it, then nixed the idea. She hadn't taken her potion, and with as angry and vulnerable as she was feeling, the part of herself with an appetite might misbehave. That was the last thing she needed. The hand holding the letter balled up as she seethed at the woman who had taken her protection away.

She shoved it in her pocket and left the office without another word, walking quickly through the maze of hallways to the fireplace that was labeled "St. Mungo's." She pinched the powder hastily and threw it in, desperate to leave the place that had so betrayed her.

After Asher had checked in at the hospital, avoiding fearful gazes and ignoring those who left the room on her entrance, she took a seat in the waiting room, thinking better of picking up a magazine. Her Daily Prophet picture scowled from every table, and a few hands. Luckily, she didn't have to wait long before she heard her name called. She stood and faced the voice, sighing. "That's me."

"I'm Emeritus Wright, and I'll be examining you today, Ms. Erised," the harmless-looking wizard said. He was average height, a dark blonde mop intruding into his gentle eyes, and he pushed it back, then gestured for her to follow. They walked a long distance down a brightly lit hallway, then made a turn into a rather dingier one. He opened a door and waved her inside.

"Emeritus? That's a new one on me," she said, trying to break the tension she felt.

"Emery, please," he replied, looking a bit embarrassed. "My mum-- not the brightest Muggle-- thought if she gave me a smart-sounding name, it would make me smart. The fact that I am likely has more to do with my father. Sit, please."

Asher stared at him a moment, then did as requested, startling when a tape measure began invading her personal space. "I don't mean to be rude," she began, trying not to flinch as the tape measure slithered down her forehead, "but this is-- I mean, I expected an armed guard and chains."

The bookish-looking man peered up at the tape, jotted something down, then folded his hands in his lap. "Should I fetch some?" he asked calmly, reminding her of Dumbledore.

"Well, I don't think so. You don't read the Prophet, do you?"

"Of course I do," he smiled. "But I'm of the sort who is more inclined to go by evidence than rumor." He picked up his quill again and resumed recording measurements.

Asher blinked at him, but said nothing else about it. The exam went on, as she opened her mouth and held out her arms and answered an increasingly embarrassing set of questions.

"I am sorry," Emery said at her red face and sputtering after "rate your sexual prowess". "I realize these must seem invasive. I am simply following protocol."

She scowled at the form, fighting down the blush in her cheeks. "This protocol is crap."

"It's also several hundred years old. We don't get many succubi through here." He looked thoughtful, then added, "At least, not any we've been aware of. Veela are the closest we've had since, oh, ages ago. No," he corrected, "that's not quite right, is it? Your mother was through here in the last decade, was she not?"

Asher winced. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry to hear of her passing," Emery said kindly. "That must have been difficult."

Asher squinted at him suspiciously, measuring him up. "They told you to get friendly with me, didn't they?"

" _They_ didn't want to touch your case, they're scared silly. The head of office would rather she never even had to look at the paperwork. They shoved it off on me because I'm used to dealing with the Werewolves." He said this without inflection, a faint smile touching the corners of his lips.

"That's nice," said Asher dryly.

"It's stupid, is what it is," he said matter-of-factly, shoving the completed forms in a file folder. "If you were half as dangerous as the Prophet makes you out to be, I'd have heard of you long before this, and I'd have made a house-call to Azkaban."

"Might still," Asher said sourly. "The public is really gunning for me."

"I'd noticed," he said, a sad note entering his voice, his face somber. "Remus Lupin went through much the same thing. Nice chap, I was sorry when he was killed."

"I've only heard stories," Asher replied, moved by the wizard's emotion. "He taught at Hogwarts before I arrived."

"According to just about any student who had him, he was the best Defence Against the Dark Arts professor of that time. Though I hear Harry Potter is teaching there next year. He might give him a run."

A synapse fired in Asher's brain, and she furrowed her brow, thinking. "Yeah.. having the famous Harry Potter at Hogwarts might ease some minds.."

Emery smiled as he caught onto the train of thought, adding, "He defeated the darkest wizard of our time there, surely he could handle one wee half-succubus."

Asher looked up sharply at that. "I really am half?"

"Oh, yes, there's no doubt," he replied. "I'm not sure at all how it happened, but you are not a full one, and therefore not nearly as dangerous. A full succubus would be unable to use a wand, and would never have been accepted into any magical school. And," he added sincerely, leaning in, "I'll tell everyone I know."

She slumped in relief, surprised to feel tears pricking her eyes and a lump growing in her throat. "Thanks-- I--" she managed through the tightness.

He reached out and gave her hand a squeeze. "Think nothing of it." Withdrawing his hand, he said, "Speaking of wands, I need yours, please."

It hit her in the chest again, and the tears did leak out now. Her wand was gone; unable to say it out loud, she rummaged in her pocket and pulled out the crumpled letter from the Wand Division.

He took it silently, smoothing it out to read it. His voice coming out scratchier than before, he said, "You can go home now, Asher. We've done everything there is to do here."

"I can't," she whispered, her tight throat not allowing more volume than that. "I can't apparate; I can't summon a broom; I can't floo into Hogwarts from here, only _out._ " Her last words wavered dangerously, and she swallowed hard to try and steady them, but when she next spoke her voice was still thready. "If I walk out of here, people-- they were trying to hex me on the way to the Ministry, and now I can't even--"

Emery's own throat was threatening to close as he watched the young woman struggle. He had been able to tell when he met her that she was a strong personality, and it had shown throughout the interview, but it was crushing under the weight of what the Ministry had done to her.

"Don't worry," he said reassuringly, managing not to let his own voice waver. "I'll take care of it. Just wait here."

A little while later, McGonagall entered the kind wizard's small, tattered office, put a hand on Asher's shaking shoulder, and murmured gently, "Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this chapter and the several following to the score of Outlander, mixed in with the most melancholy tracks of Andrew Belle, Broods, and The Oh Hellos. It doesn't really have any bearing on the story, just thought I'd mention it, because I'm not sure I could have gotten through them-- though this chapter, especially-- without that help putting myself in Asher's head.


	5. A Sour Deal

If Hermione was angry before Asher left for her appointments, when McGonagall brought her home to Hermione's quarters, the bushy-haired witch was furious. The black-haired woman, normally full of vitality and humor, was listless and unresisting under Minerva's guiding hands, her typically bright, intelligent eyes dull and forlorn.

"They took her wand," McGonagall had confided before she left the silent Asher in Hermione's hands. After a few speechless moments, she added, "Coffee with firewhisky, I think," before excusing herself.

Hermione, grateful for something to do, put together the drink with unsteady hands. How they could do this to her, how a human being could make another so vulnerable, was unthinkable to Hermione, but that they had done it, unfortunately, was not. Remnants of Voldemort's rule-- and Umbridge's-- were spread throughout the Ministry, seeming sometimes to be as difficult to vanquish as the Dark Lord himself. Before Umbridge, a wand would only be confiscated when it was proven to be stolen, or the holder had committed some illegal act with it.

She brought the cup to Asher, picking up a limp, scarred hand to wrap around it. After she was sure the other woman would keep hold of it, she let go.

Absently, Asher brought the cup to her lips and back down again, staring off into a place Hermione couldn't visit. It was probably a good thing she couldn't; Asher's imagination swirled with darkness, anger, and despair. How could she teach a class if she couldn't even safely clean up the spilled contents of a cauldron? How was she to survive in a world of magic if she could command little of her own? She was practically a Squib now, save for her potions. Even some of those were now lost to her; many of the more complex concoctions needed a charm to brew correctly. In treating her as nonhuman, a monster, they had taken away the only half that certainly _wasn't._

Hermione felt sick with a fierce anger as she waited for Asher to come back to herself. The Ministry had gone too far; she could feel the rightness of that thought in her very soul. She would bombard every Division responsible with angry letters, she would storm the office responsible for this heinous act and--

"Herm?"

Hermione abandoned her thoughts, tucking them away for later as she knelt in front of the woman she loved. "Yes, I'm here," she said, gripping the outstretched hand tightly.

Slowly, haltingly, Asher took Hermione through the day, from the witch in the Being Division to the moment Emery had called Minerva to take her home. Hermione's heart nearly broke as she listened to Asher tell her about the confiscation of her wand, but she felt a small grain of hope when she heard the tale of the sympathetic wizard at the hospital. They had one Ministry-connected ally, at least, even if he was the one who'd been shunted to the little-desired position of Werewolf-duty.

After she had finished, Asher was clearly exhausted and in no mood for discussing tactics. Hermione Summoned a bottle of the Suppression Draught, made sure Asher drank it, and tucked her into bed. Once she'd poured herself a hot drink, she began pulling volumes from her personal library, and started a list of others to fetch from the school library next day. Amon dropped down from his vantage point on the highest bookshelf and offered his aid, none of his usual attitude present. Not now, when the center of his world was reeling.

The Ministry had gone too far, and Hermione Granger was determined to teach them the error of their ways.

Morning saw Hermione arguing with the diminutive house-elf who called Asher mistress.

"Winky, please just take the day," Hermione begged. "I need to feel useful; surely you understand that? I'd like to make breakfast and coffee and help her through today."

The squashy-nosed elf folded her arms stubbornly. "Winky will not be going without hearing her mistress saying those words."

"Please? You could go help in the kitchens, or with tidying duties." Hermione had never really imagined herself suggesting to a house-elf that she should fill a day off with work, but here she was anyway.

"It's okay, Winky," came a tired voice from the direction of Hermione's bed. "Go ahead." The house-elf disappeared with a crack, and Asher winced from the bed. "You must have really pissed her off. She only Disapparates when she's mad or something bad happens." Asher turned on her side to better see Hermione. "What did you say to her?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Hermione said, busying herself with the preparation of coffee and tea her back to the bed. "I just wanted to cook for you today."

Considering she had never once said that before, Asher knew that the night before had been bad in some way. Cautiously, she asked, "Did I keep you from sleeping?" She couldn't quite bring herself to ask if the nightmares she remembered having had been audible to Hermione. She couldn't bear admitting just now that she'd felt that vulnerable, even in her sleep. She'd never seen Azkaban, but she was sure it couldn't be far off from what her brain had come up with, if the rumors were true.

"No," came the answer, though Asher could tell it wasn't quite the truth.

She spotted Amon with his head under his wing on the post-perch, which was odd; she often teased him for being the proverbial early bird. "You were up late," she guessed.

"Yes. I had a difficult time even imagining sleeping, much less the doing of it." Hermione finished pouring their beverages and brought them over to the bed on a small tray, setting it down and perching on the edge.

Asher took her mug and nodded at the slumbering bird. "So how many different plans did you two come up with?"

"None," Hermione replied bitterly. "We're heading to the library after classes today."

"When in doubt," Asher said with a small smile.

Hermione smiled back, relieved to see some of the Asher she knew had returned. After the night before, she'd do anything to make sure the Potions professor never looked so despondent again.

"You know, you don't have to do this." Asher's voice was small, as if she knew there would be consequences to saying this.

"Don't be ridiculous," came the stern reply.

"Really," she pressed on, face earnest. "Herm, this could ruin your life, too. Don't think I don't know it. I'm already a pariah, you don't need to put yourself in the same path--"

"Oh, shut up!" Hermione exclaimed with irritated fondness. "I have more than one personal reason for doing this, as well as a couple moral ones. What the Ministry did, what that Skeeter woman is _planning_ on doing--" her voice became firm and nearly vicious here-- "I simply will not stand by and watch it happen." Her tone softening, she continued, "You're a lovely person for offering a way out, Ash, but absolutely stupid if you think I'm going to take it."

Asher couldn't help but smile at that, even as she started to protest, and was dismayed to find her eyes growing damp. Hermione saw them glistening and leaned forward, resting her forehead against Asher's. "I love you, you idiot," she said, exasperation and affection in her voice. "That, by itself, is enough for me."

No matter what Hermione tried, however, she found herself blocked in some way. When she wrote to the Ministry, the letters she received in response were firm and dismissive. When she approached the newspapers, they were either running defamatory articles about Asher or didn't want to be involved. Harry didn't dare help-- he might be deputy head of his division of Aurors, but there were others who wanted his spot, and it wasn't a lifetime appointment. _Politics,_ Hermione thought, the word practically a curse the way it reverberated through her head.

The newspapers continued speculating on Asher's life; Rita Skeeter's columns had grown almost absurd in their theories, especially now she'd caught on that Asher was wandless. Dumbledore had stolen the wand for her; she was only at Hogwarts to feed on the unsuspecting children; she was the next Voldemort, if the Ministry didn't keep her wand away from her. These were only a few of the blonde witch's ideas, and the Prophet seemed not to care one iota that they were ruining Asher's life.

Asher did her best to hide it, but Hermione could see the toll it was taking. She rarely left her quarters, except to go to Hermione's. She had taken to drinking a lot in the evenings, and she was snippy with pretty much everyone, Hermione included. She hadn't gone to class in two weeks, fearful of her students' reactions, even though Hermione had tried to persuade her it was better to go, if for no other reason than to have something to do. Privately, the bushy-haired witch thought it would reflect well on Asher, as the papers were making much out of the fact that she was hiding.

And still, the Ministry kept her wand.

The tension Hermione and the Headmistress felt came to a head when no fewer than four Aurors-- fortunately for Hermione, Harry was not among them-- came to collect Asher with the intent of taking her to Azkaban.

"We have orders from the Minister himself," the lead Auror had said officiously, her eyes blazing after McGonagall had denied her entrance to the gates. Hermione stood to her side, her own gaze afire; she had been in the entrance hall when Minerva had swept through on the way to greet them.

"Then you shall have to disappoint him," McGonagall said firmly, her voice crackling with unspoken anger. "I would sooner climb into a dragon's mouth than open my gates to you." The group had swelled angrily at this sentiment, looking for a moment as if they would blast through the charmed and warded iron, but Minerva had continued, "I mean no disrespect to you as individuals, but I cannot abide by your orders. Give me proof of a crime, and I shall reconsider."

It had then come to light that the wandmaker from which Asher had received her wand had fallen victim to a magical fire some years earlier, and lost all record of the sale, and many more besides. The Ministry had refused to take her word on it, even though she had been able to clearly describe Asher-- she had not been asked to find a wand for the daughter of a succubus before or since, and the occurrence had stayed strong in her memory. But the Ministry had seized on this as proof that Asher had stolen her wand, and now sought to arrest her for it, as much to ease the fearful and angry public as for any other reason.

"This does not satisfy me," Minerva had said stiffly, her wand ready at her side. Hermione followed suit, keeping hers pointed at the ground as the Headmistress's was; not quite a threat, but enough to show they were serious. After some long moments staring each other down, a compromise was bargained: McGonagall would set a meeting with the Hogwarts Board of Governors, at which the Office of the Aurors would have representatives, and if the Board did not decide that Asher could remain, then they could act.

It was a bitter, sour deal to negotiate; owls flitted in and out, carrying rushed notes to and from the Minister. Hermione could barely keep her composure. She knew that it was the best they could do under the circumstances, but it felt like betting Asher's life, and she wasn't even there to speak for herself.

Finally, the deal was done, an agreement was written and signed by all parties, and the Aurors Apparated away. A chill had crept its way into Hermione's heart, and when she looked at McGonagall's solemn profile, she knew she wasn't alone.

"I've no idea how we are to tell her," the Headmistress had sighed once they had reentered the castle.

Hermione felt the same; her fear for Asher thrashed against her ribs like a caged beast when she realized how much one meeting could potentially impact Asher's life.

Hermione and McGonagall left it to the morning after, where they ate a private breakfast in Asher's tower and filled her in on the development. They explained the confrontation and the negotiation, taking turns filling in the gaps. When they had finished, they both watched Asher warily.

Hermione expected an outburst akin to the one she had had after finding out she'd been outed to the Ministry, but it did not come. Asher stared through her empty plate for a long time, lost in her thoughts-- not good ones, judging from her expression. After a while, she stood and went to the window, looking out onto the grounds. "I'm going to lose my home," Asher said finally, heavily.

Minerva and Hermione shared a look, neither of them knowing how to respond to that.

"If I can't teach, I can't stay here," she continued, causing a sharp response from McGonagall.

"You are always welcome here--" she began, but Asher raised a hand.

"I can't because if I can't teach it means they've determined that I'm unsafe. You have a lot of say, Minerva, but you know the Board would never allow it." She turned from the window and made the first eye contact since breakfast had started. "I still have the house in the States. Worst comes to worst, I can go there."

"Leave the country?" Hermione questioned faintly. If Asher left.. well, she'd be gone, and how were they to conduct a relationship halfway round the world from each other?

"There is still the meeting ahead of us, let's not jump to any conclusions just yet," McGonagall said, but she didn't sound hopeful.


	6. The Meeting

Asher vomited into the small toilet hidden behind the folding screen in her bedroom. This afternoon she was due to meet with the Board of Governors of Hogwarts, and she had never been so nervous in her life; not even the moment when she had met Dumbledore had been so nerve-wracking.

 _If only the old man was here now,_  she thought, recalling his kindly eyes with the spark of mischief that flitted so briefly but clearly through them sometimes. The night she had come to Hogwarts, the evening before classes had started, she had been ushered into the old Headmaster's office by McGonagall and her uncle. Grief-struck, overwhelmed, and anxious, the fourteen-year-old Asher had felt sick to her stomach. Her father had died only a month before, and she had just been told that her mother had been caught in Egypt and was on her way to prison.

"Hello, Asher," the old man had said gently, gesturing for her to sit. "I am Professor Dumbledore, and I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts. This," and he gestured at the severe-looking witch now standing by his side, "is Professor McGonagall, my Deputy Headmistress and the Transfiguration professor." He looked down at Asher, whose eyes had flicked to her Uncle Cornelius standing behind her. "Minister, if you would excuse us, please."

Cornelius gave a start, then opened and closed his mouth a few times before managing to object. "She is my niece and now under my charge," he said indignantly. "I will not."

"As I recall, Minister, you have completed your education at Hogwarts, so it is not your status we are discussing." Those calm blue eyes had regarded the Minister of Magic with no obvious challenge, but Asher could tell that it was there, lurking. "You will be apprised, do not fear. I would simply like a few words with my prospective student."

Asher had blinked as her uncle withdrew, grumpily, but without another word. Once the office door had closed behind him, she turned back to Dumbledore, unable to keep her eyes calm. It reminded her of the meeting her father had had with the head of her old school, and her stomach dropped. Then, her mother had been a source of concern, but now... Now she was a certified threat, soon to be sent to Alcatraz for a crime she had definitely committed. Asher felt the chance for success slip away.

"Now that we have taken care of that," Dumbledore had said lightly-- that was the first time Asher had seen the impish light in his eyes-- "I understand you have had a hard few weeks. I'm sure you are wondering why we would let you into this school."

The young black-haired girl had nearly started then, because she had been wondering exactly that.

A faint smile was the only sign that the old man had seen it. "The simple answer is, because you have done nothing wrong, and you need to go to school. I'm told you had high marks at Littlebury."

"I did," Asher answered, her voice hoarse from lack of use. She cleared it nervously.

"In fact, I'm told that you were nearly top of your class, and would have been except for a fight that earned you several demerits."

Asher's cheeks had colored, and she stared down into her lap. "Yes, sir."

"Do you consider yourself a violent person?" He had asked this with the blandest of tones, surprising Asher enough to make her look up.

"Well, no," Asher had stammered, "Only--" She stopped. How stupid and pointless that fight seemed now.

"Only what?"

When she had looked at the Headmaster next, he was simply looking at her, waiting calmly for her to continue. ///He is not what I expected./// She would have expected another Professor to lecture her, but he had just waited, like he actually wanted to hear what she had to say. "He was calling me evil, saying it was in my blood, that I was a lost cause and I might as well just leave the school." Her throat had tightened as she remembered the boy's cruel face. "I'd already put together that there was something, well, not right about my mom, but..."

Dumbledore had seemed to realize that she'd run out of words. "She is your mother, and you love her." He had gazed, almost sadly, down at her, something deep and unfathomable in his eyes. "Loyalty is a quality I value in my students. Perhaps violence was not the best way to show that loyalty--" and he had smiled at her here to take the sting out of his words-- "but then, I have always considered a mistake to be an opportunity for learning."

The recollection faded, and Asher flushed the soiled toilet. Her stomach had calmed, thinking of the unpredictable old Professor and his kindness. She washed her face in the sink, inspected her hair, and wished her eyes didn't look so frightened. Today was the day she'd find out if she was going to lose her job.

She knew the consequences would stretch farther than just losing her position and her home. If the Board decided to let her go, it would be a statement to the Wizarding World: We Don't Trust Her. The Prophet would pick it up and run with it, surely, and she would be routed to Azkaban. Last she knew, it would be a six-month sentence, but she was sure it would somehow develop into more time. In that case, she had to consider running.

The United States was always an option, of course, as she still owned her childhood home up in the Colorado mountains. But she had not been back there since she'd left ten years before, and she was afraid the memories would be too much. The country was large enough she could live somewhere else, of course, but there was always the problem of her last name. Her mother's crime, capture, and imprisonment had been sensational news in the States, and many might still remember and decide not to sell or rent to her. Adding to the problem was the fact that she couldn't change it: Her lineage and the accompanying ancient enchantment prevented her from writing or signing any other. If she tried writing a false name, the ink would simply change to reflect her true one. If American Magical Law Enforcement got involved, that would not work out in her favor.

And, most importantly, no matter where she went, Hermione would not be able to go with her.

Hermione was a celebrity in the Wizarding World, for far purer reasons than Asher. She would be recognized, by name if not by sight, wherever she went, and it would cause their life to be under an unnatural amount of scrutiny. Hogwarts was the only place they could feasibly be together and not gather unwanted attention, and Asher could not ask her to leave it. She knew the old castle was as important to the Transfiguration professor as it was to her, even if their reasons were different.

Hogwarts had long been Asher's haven in a storm, the place she could go and simply be. Dumbledore had seen to that, impressing upon her that she was forever welcome within its walls, as long as she loved and respected what it stood for. Minerva had reminded her of that when she had asked her to fill the Potions position. Both had told her, in plain words, that the nonhuman half of her ancestry did not determine whether she belonged at Hogwarts.

But today, it would, if only because neither Dumbledore nor McGonagall were making the decision. Her fate was left to the twelve Governors, who had only a few days ago sent their champions to demand her dismissal. The stories the Prophet had been peddling were unlikely to help her case; neither was the Ministry's confiscation of her wand. All she had was the backing of Minerva and her spotless Hogwarts record to get her through.

Her stomach churned again at the prospect, but she willed it to quiet. She would come away from today with her dignity, even if she lost everything else. Shaking, she walked to the ladder, and began to descend.

She hardly remembered the walk to the Hogwarts gate, or meeting Minerva there. The Side-Along Apparition to the Governors' meeting place was a blur, as was being escorted to her seat. The opening ceremony of the meeting was an indistinct gathering of words; she instead looked around the room, taking in its features. A vaulted ceiling, ancient and polished beams supporting it, lorded over the walls filled with bookshelves and the broad, long table in the center. A set of double doors was centered in each of the four walls, leading to rooms Asher could only guess at. Name placards marked where each Governor sat, and she studied them, only recognizing the few from McGonagall's office.

Harry Potter stood behind and to the right of the Chairwoman, another Auror Asher didn't recognize flanking her on the other side. McGonagall, she noticed, watched the female Auror with some distaste.

She heard her name, and snapped back to reality. "--Asher Erised, Potions professor. We are here to determine if she should be dismissed from her position at Hogwarts. A preliminary vote will be called." Thusnelde Woodbead, leader, tapped her wand on a small silver bell Asher had not noticed before, and its ring seemed to fill the entire room, sweet and pure.

"All in favor of dismissal."

Eleven wands raised, golden light trickling from each of them to form the number eleven in the air above them.

"All against."

One wand lifted into the air, red light pouring from it to create the one that settled into place beside the golden eleven. It belonged to the last person Asher would ever have expected: Draco Malfoy. She barely kept her jaw from dropping.

There was a ripple moving around the room; the other Governors were shifting uncomfortably. Woodbead looked at him, trying to keep the surprise from her face. Stiffly, she said, "As the vote is not unanimous, arguments will be heard."

She gestured at McGonagall first, inviting her to rise and announcing her name and position. "Headmistress McGonagall, please state the reasons why you believe Professor Erised should or should not be dismissed from her position at Hogwarts."

Minerva stood, her voice steady and clear. "One: No student or professor has come to harm by her hand during her employment."

"Objections?" Governor Woodbead questioned the room. There were none. She gestured at McGonagall to continue.

And so Minerva went down the list; there was some arguing over the use of the phrase "well-liked", and the Daily Prophet articles had clearly prejudiced some on that. It was decided that whether she was well-liked should be determined by how many complaints were made against her prior to her exposure, which was a lucky break: There were none. There were few other objections to the facts she listed, as it was clear that many of the Governors wished Malfoy had voted with them and made it so she didn't have the opportunity to speak at all.

"In closing, Professor Erised has only displayed care for her students, and has never harmed anyone during her tenure. She is a valued member of our staff, and poses no threat."

Objections flew from nearly every direction.

"No _threat?_ "

"She is dangerous--"

"--not even human!" This came from the Auror present with Harry. Minerva snarled softly beside Asher.

"Enough!" came the stern voice of Thusnelde Woodbead, and the bell pealed for silence. "Governors, your point is made. Headmistress? Any response?"

Minerva looked angry, but her voice remained even. "Any one of us could be labeled dangerous. I, personally, know a number of spells that could harm a person. The same could be said of any witch or wizard in this room." She let those words sink in, and only when the silence became uncomfortable did she continue. "If I were to base my students' marks on how they could perform, instead of how they do perform, I would be failing in my duties. Likewise, if you base your decisions today on what _could_ be instead of what _is,_ you will be failing in yours." There was a small intake of breath from the Governors- had Minerva McGonagall dared to insult them in their own council room? "You were brought onto this Board to protect Hogwarts, but you were selected because you were trusted to make sound and fair decisions. Basing your decision on fear, prejudice, and ignorance--" many sat straight in their chairs at this assertion-- "is not sound, nor fair." She sat back down, signaling the end to her statement.

Asher felt her eyes grow moist. Minerva was risking her position in facing the Board so boldly and speaking so frankly. She swallowed, willing the tears to remain unshed. She knew she had to speak next-- she needed her voice to be steady.

The room was silent, unnaturally so; not a person shifted, not a murmur was released. McGonagall had shocked them, and it was several moments before Governor Woodbead came back to herself enough to resume the ceremony. "Professor Erised, please rise."

Asher did, her knees unsteady. She hoped the shaking was not as noticeable as it felt.

"Have you anything to add?"

Asher cleared her throat. "Very little, Governor. Just--" she looked around the room, eyes resting briefly on those of each Governor-- "just that I would never hurt anyone who calls Hogwarts home. Ten years ago, Albus Dumbledore welcomed me to its halls. As I'm sure most of you know, my father had just died weeks before. I was relocated from the States to here, to live with my uncle. He and I did not get along well, and his home never felt like mine. But Hogwarts..." Her voice tightened, and she struggled not to lose it as emotions welled. "Hogwarts welcomed me. I was accepted, there. I was taught that I could decide who I was, that my heritage might have shaped my past, but I could determine my future." She couldn't stop the emotion that came out in those last words, or that showed itself in the next. "I learned that I didn't have to be like my mother. I could choose." She blinked rapidly to clear the tears, but they fell down her cheeks instead. "I hope it is clear to you all who I have chosen to be."

She practically fell into her seat, her muscles seeming unwilling to help her gently down. She felt a hand squeeze her own, and looked over to see McGonagall nod at her before turning again to face the Board.

Wooddbead called for the Governors to retire to the Sanctum. She didn't know what or where it was, but she did know that was where they would make their decision. Harry and the nameless Auror remained standing; Asher remained in her chair. Even if she'd felt the desire to get up, she had no idea where she'd go. She ended up staring down at her hands, picking at her robes nervously. She could hear McGonagall shifting minutely beside her.

The minutes wore on- five, ten, fifteen, perhaps? She lost the sense for them after a while. "Did you bring any cards?" she asked McGonagall after a while, only half-joking. McGonagall smiled distractedly at her and shook her head.

Asher tapped her fingers on the table, then stopped when she realized how loud it was in the large room; the redheaded Auror was staring at her. She twisted a portion of her robes between her fingers idly, wondering what they were talking about, wishing Hermione had been permitted to come. Hermione nearly always had something to say to fill the quiet.

Asher's sensitive ears perked; she could hear many muffled footsteps coming their way. Her heart picked up its beating, thudding against her sternum wildly. She forced herself not to fidget as the Governors filed into the room and took their seats; she couldn't tell from their faces what they had decided.

Thusnelde Woodbead took her seat and rang the bell, calling the meeting back to order. All heads turned to look at Asher.

"On this day, let it be known that Asher Erised is permitted to remain on the staff of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, under two conditions."

Asher's heart lifted, then clenched.

"One, that she receives permission to have a wand from the Ministry of Magic."

She closed her eyes briefly. Who knew if that would happen?

"Two, that a member of this Board of Governors, specifically, Governor Malfoy, is present in each of her classes for a probationary period consisting of the first semester of the next Hogwarts school year."

Asher could not help the strangled gasp that tore from her lips. A babysitter? And not just any babysitter, but Malfoy? She shut her lips tight on any protests. However much she might desire to strangle Draco Malfoy by the end of her probation, she still had her job, and she wasn't in prison, and for that she was grateful. When she glanced at him, his thin face was tight; it looked like she wasn't the only one who wasn't pleased with that decision. She couldn't read Harry's face, but the redhead looked pale and angry.

Woodbead went on, "Before we adjourn, Ms. Erised, please heed this warning: We have given you the benefit of the doubt today, but if we at any point suspect wrongdoing on your part, or find that you have been dishonest, we have no problem terminating your employment immediately and permanently. Am I clear?"

Asher nodded. _Ge_ _t me out of here,_ she thought, her stomach heaving once again.


	7. Interlude in America

She couldn't teach, not until she had her wand back, which meant she was not currently welcome at Hogwarts Castle. She knew buying a new one was forbidden; it was clear in the Ministry's guidelines. If she couldn't teach, and she couldn't stay, then she needed to leave, so she went the only place she could think of to go.

 

The journey was long, without magic. Broomstick after boat after broomstick after thestral, she made her way to her childhood home, Winky clinging to her the entire way. Hermione had begged her not to go, but she had felt a nauseous compulsion driving her. If she couldn't stay, she had to go. It had been like a mantra in her head the entire journey, warding off the anxious hurt that now lived in her gut.

 

Every time she stopped for the night, every time she stocked up on supplies, she felt the keen loss of her wand and her bird. Amon had elected to stay behind, claiming a ship wouldn't agree with him, but Asher knew better. He was teaming up with Hermione to take Rita Skeeter down, even if he wouldn't admit it.

 

Asher had chosen, for the last step of her journey, to rent a car. She had had to learn how to drive one, of course, but with the help of McGonagall, who was surprisingly adept at it, it hadn't taken too long. McGonagall had also helped her mock up a Colorado driver's license, in case she was stopped; Asher, wisely, hadn't asked how the Headmistress knew it would pass even electronic inspection.

 

And so, the last leg of her trip was to motor up the winding drive that led to her old childhood home, only twice having to stop to heave fallen trees out of the way. It was more difficult, without a wand, but she managed, for once blessing her inhuman strength.

 

The little blue car puttered around the last uphill bend a bit breathlessly, and Asher took in the first view of her old house with awe and a little sadness. The young trees her father had planted around it had matured nicely, a couple of them nearly as tall as the two-story. Other than that, it was mostly as she remembered, if a bit worn-- shingles dangled precariously from portions of the roof, and the forest green siding was losing its paint on the bottom edges of each slat. She noted, with chagrin, that the magical ivy that had only just started when she was young had taken over an entire wall and had managed to shatter a window along the way; if she remembered correctly, it was to the upstairs hall.

 

Winky, who had been riding nervously beside her in the passenger seat, looked upon the house with the abject horror of a creature who liked cleanliness and order above most everything else. "The house is being so messy," she said, distress tinging her tone. "I is being very glad you is bringing me along."

 

They spent days cleaning the main rooms. The dust wasn't as thick as Asher had expected, but it coated everything with even a moderately flat surface. The first thing they had attempted to tidy was the fireplace; it might be summer, but the nights still held a chill at this elevation. Asher had left Winky to clean it, after a moment, because the spent logs and ashes sat in the exact position as they had the day she had discovered her mother wrapped around her father's body, and the memory of that day had come back with such intensity that she gained an instant headache.

 

 _Maybe I was wrong to come back here,_ she thought through the throbbing of her neck and temples. The headache had not eased, even after a week and a much cleaner house. She stayed in her old room, avoiding the one her parents had slept in, and spent hours when she should have been cleaning instead staring out her windows at the Rocky Mountains. They were still achingly beautiful, the season not yet advanced enough to take all the snow from their tips.

 

She wondered if any Muggles-- or No-Maj, as they were called here-- had wandered up the overgrown driveway in the time she'd been away, marveling at the old house. She knew that there had been occasional offers on the house from wizard and No-Maj alike, but she had refused to let her uncle sell it. Horrible events aside, it was her home. She had grown up here.

 

She remembered the day she had shown her first aptitude for magic, much later than her full-human counterparts. She had been ten, Amon perched upon her shoulder, when she had been playing in a gully in early spring. The snowmelt hadn't been strong enough to fill it- until that afternoon. The gully was half a mile from the house, and a favorite spot, with the tree roots exposed by lack of water and interesting rocks that washed down the mountain every year.

 

She had been refining her fort, built on one of the tree roots, when she heard what she thought was someone dumping water out of a bucket. Only after a moment, she realized that that bucket must be bottomless, because the water kept pouring out, and before she knew what was happening, there was water filling the gully.

 

Amon had squawked at her, tugging her shirt and scratching her shoulder, too frightened to form words, but she couldn't move; she could now see the water barreling down the mountain. She huddled into a ball and covered her head, and later Amon told her he heard her make a noise that was like a whine and a scream put together. The water was almost upon her-- it was going to sweep her away--

 

What seemed like hours later, she had cautiously uncovered her head and raised it. She was still inside her fort. Even though she could see all around it that the water was flowing past, mud and sticks and other debris rushing by in it, the ground inside the fort was dry-- and so was she.

 

She had climbed up on the root and out of the gully-turned-river, and the fort collapsed once she was no longer in it, the branches and leaves pulled downhill by the current. She had stood with wide eyes for a long time after that, and finally collected herself enough to run home, because she knew what it had meant, even then.

 

Her father's joyous face as he danced her around the room was still clear in her mind. He had made her breakfast for dinner and homemade ice cream, his barely contained excitement still showing through the reflex of British stiffness.

 

And she remembered the look on her mother's face: A look of troubled wonder, and perhaps sadness.

 

The memory dissipated as she heard a distant motor coming up the driveway. The length and steepness of the drive gave her time to grab the shotgun perched just inside the front door. Pawn shops across the state sold guns, and she'd picked it up for a song. She'd spent much of her time practicing with it, because despite her Muggle-like upbringing, her dad had still advocated a magical defense. She'd found that she was actually a pretty good shot, despite the lateness of her learning.

 

And so, when the old, rickety car came around the last stand of trees and became visible, the first thing it saw was a slim young woman, raven hair tied back, wearing a patterned sweater, holding a 12-gauge in the crook of her elbow and leaning casually against the porch column, waiting.

 

Asher continued to wait as the car door squealed open, and out stepped a woman dressed in hippie style, not precisely middle-aged; mature, Asher decided. Her tie-dye skirt reached to the tops of her sandals, and a peasant-style shirt shone aquamarine. Wavy, messy blonde hair cascaded to mid-back, and her tanned face was creased faintly around the edges with smile and frown lines alike.

 

The woman spoke first. "Asher? Asher Erised?"

 

Asher startled, coming away from the column to stand straight. "What do you want?"

 

"My, so suspicious. Don't you remember me? Or is thirteen years too long?"

 

Looking at her with eyes narrowed in thought, a memory sparked, but it was faint. A woman, standing in a shop?

 

"It's alright if you don't remember me," the American witch said, bending to grab some packages out of the backseat, filling her arms with long, thin boxes.

 

It finally clicked, and Asher said, "You made my wand." This was said with some amazement and a little shame, as it was currently locked in the British Ministry.

 

"Oh, good, you do remember," the witch said, smiling. She nodded at the shotgun Asher still held. "Have you decided if you're going to shoot me? Now would be a good time, since I'm occupied."

 

Asher looked abashed, leaning the gun against the porch pillar. "Sorry. I don't have my wand at the moment."

 

"I know, which is why I'm here," the blonde woman replied easily, stepping forward with the packages. "Shall we go in?"

 

Asher blinked, but hastened to the door to let her in. The house was still a bit dirty, but Winky had devoted a lot of time to the main room, and long since cleared the old ashes from the fireplace. A fire was blazing currently against the impending evening chill, and Asher gestured at the oak dining table as a place the wandmaker could deposit her boxes.

 

"My name is Zenobia Bancroft," the witch said, eyeing Asher curiously as she arranged the packages so they were spread out across the tabletop.

 

"Yes, I know," said Asher absently. "What are those doing here?" The boxes plainly contained wands.

 

"Well, I'm here to give you a new one. M-- I was told that your old wand had been confiscated, and I didn't want you to be without one."

 

"I'm not supposed to have one," she protested, though she stopped short at the contemptuous look on the American wandmaker's face.

 

"In _Britain,_ " she said. "Those rules don't extend to the American Magical Congress."

 

Asher lifted her eyebrows, but decided not to argue: There was a steel behind the hippie-like exterior that she figured would not be a good idea to test.

 

Zenobia opened the first box and held it out to her. "This one's Sequoia, Uktena fang, 11 and a half inches," she said. Sensing Asher's reluctance, she scolded, "Come now, they may never give your old wand back."

 

Asher suppressed a worried look and took it, but the wand was unresponsive.

 

"I didn't think so, but I brought it anyway," Zenobia said dismissively. She held out another. "Bristlecone, Snallygaster, 9 and ⅞ inches."

 

Asher picked this one up as well, and though it was comfortable in her hand, it remained quiet. She realized she was a bit uneducated in American wand lore, as these were very American wand materials. Her old one had been after a European fashion in deference to her father's wishes.

 

She tried a few more-- made of Palm, Franklinia, and White Elm wood respectively-- though Asher couldn't keep the unfamiliar cores straight.

 

"Hmm," Zenobia said, lifting a box that had been relegated to the edges. "I really brought this one as a lark." She lifted the box carefully, removing the lid to reveal a pale wand with ripples of darker wood along it. "Torrey Pine, with Roc feather. Longer than most at 15 inches and a fifth." She gave a small laugh as she studied it. "I'm not honestly sure why I made it. The Torrey is seriously endangered, and it took me forever to get a decent section of it. I'm sure I broke a few laws in the process. And Roc feather…" She trailed off looking thoughtful. "Try it anyway."

 

Asher raised one eyebrow, her expression a study of wariness, but firmly picked the wand up out of its box. The wood grew immediately, uncomfortably hot and shot a spout of what smelled like saltwater at the flames in the fireplace, which crackled and spat at the contact. Asher dropped the wand, but the stream continued, and the fire began improbably to creep up the water, devouring it, and moving steadily toward the tip of the wand. Realizing her wood floors were in danger, Asher snatched the wand up again, thought a quick _finite_ at it, then cast _aguamenti_  to put out the smoldering floorboards.

 

"Oh, well done," clapped a fascinated Zenobia, who was stacking the remaining boxes into a neat pile. "I wouldn't have put money on that one."

 

"Why not?" Asher asked, turning the wand over and studying it. It was really very long, much longer than her last. Gently, she put pressure on it, finding it was quite flexible.

 

"Roc feather is picky, for one," she said, having finished gathering the now pointless boxes together. "It rarely chooses anyone at all. Before my shop caught fire I had dozens that had snubbed potential owners. Plus, paired with this wood, it has the potential to go spectacularly, inventively wrong if you don't know what you're doing, as I'm sure you noticed. The pine, at least, wasn't a surprise. Your last one was pine, though not this type. Still making new things?"

 

Asher nodded, running a finger along the dark striations.

 

"Last, a wand this length usually chooses someone who is unnaturally tall, which you are not, though sometimes long wand length is associated with long life."

 

Asher pondered this, her gaze now looking through the wand more than at it. "That makes sense," she said quietly. Succubi lived for hundreds of years, and wizardkind often lived through the first century and into the next. She would likely be around for at least half a millennium. Hermione wouldn't, she knew.

 

The wandmaker quit fussing with the boxes and watched her silently for a few moments, sensing this was not a comfortable topic. Ignoring that, she said, "I take it your non-human part has longevity?"

 

"A rather dreadful amount," Asher said dryly.

 

Zenobia laughed, a full, hearty sound. "You've really soaked up the UK influence," she said conversationally, Banishing the wand boxes back out to the car. "You've gained a smidge of an accent."

 

Asher blushed, recalling Hermione saying something similar. "So I've been told. Hard not to when you've lived there for ten years."

 

Wands taken care of, the wandmaker leaned back against the table, her hands gripping the edge. "What's it like there?"

 

Asher shrugged. "I'm not really sure I can give you a good description. I didn't spend too much time around American wizardkind before I had to go." She recalled the students at Littlebury, snobbish and exclusive, but she doubted that was representative of the States as a whole.

 

Zenobia must have seen the flash in her eyes, because she murmured, "Aren't you lonely up here?"

 

Asher's gaze snapped up to meet the other woman's at that, not caring for the pitying tone.

 

"Sorry, sorry," the wandmaker said, hands raised placatingly. "Clearly I've intruded enough. Enjoy your new wand," she called behind as she turned toward the door.

 

Asher watched her go, then came to herself. "Hey, wait!" She snatched up her money-purse from the kitchen counter and followed the other witch out onto the porch, overshooting her goal and nearly running into her. Zenobia raised her eyebrows appraisingly as Asher skidded to a stop, putting a hand on her shoulder to steady her. "I didn't pay you," Asher said, holding up the pouch.

 

"I didn't ask for payment," smiled Zenobia, her light-colored eyes sparkling.

 

Something in her tone made Asher realize just how close they were standing, and her inner predator, free of the usual potion, perked up. She cleared her throat nervously, squashing her hunger quite firmly, and stepped back, reaching a fist into the purse anyway. She held out the palm full of coins insistently. "Take what it's worth, I'm rubbish at conversions."

 

Zenobia picked out fifteen galleons and a few sickles for good measure, rather more slowly than she actually needed to. "This ought to do it," she said, pocketing the money. She started toward the car, but when she was at the door, turned. "You know, if you want some company, my place is only about 15 minutes' flight southeast of here. You're welcome, if you want to be."

 

"Um--" Asher sensed that there was the potential for more than just coffee and conversation there. "Sure, thanks. I might do."

 

She watched the wandmaker slam the squeaky car door and do a three-point turn, aiming the car back down the lane, and felt a bit mystified. The chi-eating part of her was grumbling at her, and if it could use words it would probably be telling her off for passing up a willing meal.

 

Asher felt a sickly excitement in her gut, sickly mostly because of guilt. Zenobia was more than a little attractive, in a sun-browned, brash style-- and there was Hermione to think about. But as much as she didn't like to admit it, she _was_ lonely on the mountain. She'd got rather used to having someone to share a bed with at night, and had sorely felt the lack in the last couple of weeks.

 

She realized, in a vague sort of way, that there were now two paths laid out before her: One, where she returned to Scotland and Hogwarts and Hermione, and tried to pick up the pieces of her life there; or here, where she could attempt a foray into a new life, without the pressures of being registered as a dangerous magical creature.

 

American law was at the same time stricter and more lax than its British counterpart. While the Americans were hell-bent on secrecy from the No-Maj, even extending to the point where it was damned near illegal to marry a non-magical person if you didn't get the right permits and sign the right papers, they also had a rather relaxed view on non-humans, sort of a Live-and-Let-Live-Until-Someone's-Hurt kind of policy. Most non-humans were so grateful for this that they kept to the law, and Asher had never had to worry about revealing herself to the staff of Alcatraz, as a result.

 

A sudden thought came to her; she hurried back into the house and began rummaging through the old issues of Western Weekly, the southwestern United States' version of The Daily Prophet. She had ordered back-issues in order to be informed about the country she was summering in, and picked one up from May. International Magical Law Emporium Meets in Zimbabwe, the headline read. The picture confirmed the sinking feeling in her gut: the nameless Auror from her hearing stood proudly among a crowd of other witches and wizards-- and one of them was the guard from Alcatraz with the southern drawl.

 

She put her head in her hands, imagining how it had happened. They had all probably gone out for drinks, Aurors and their counterparts having generally learned that life was short and you should let loose when you could. They had probably told their most impressive or unique stories, and one probably concerned a half-succubus and her dying mother-- Southern Drawl not realizing, of course, how his words would affect the woman living half a world away.

 

She composed a letter to Hermione that night, sketching out the likelihood of events leading up to her arrival in the States, updating her and Amon on the doings of the house. She left out the wand-- she was sure her post was being read before being forwarded on to its destination.

 

She deposited the letter on the kitchen counter, unsure of how to send it with Amon being absent, and took her wand up to her room, where she spent the rest of the night turning it over in her fingers before she drifted into an exhausted and fretful sleep.

 

After another week of cleaning, going much quicker now that Asher had the use of her magic again, Winky pronounced the house suitable for guests, which meant that there was now very little for Asher to do. She had already cast multiple shrouding charms around the property, as well as a Disinterest Ward and some alarm hexes, and was at a loss of what to occupy herself with next. She hadn't yet ventured into the basement laboratory, her father's old domain, and still couldn't bring herself to pick the magical padlock.

 

The letter she had written Hermione still lay on the counter, and Asher decided that she would take her broomstick and fly to Zenobia's home to see if she could borrow her owl, or at least to ask directions to the nearest Post Office. After some quick instructions to Winky, she cast a Disillusionment Charm over herself, kicked off from the ground and headed southeast, the Cleansweep steady under her inexpert hands.

 

She hadn't been sure how she would spot Zenobia's house, but upon seeing the expanse of forest made up of dozens of different trees, some of them very obviously not native to the area, she knew it for what it was: A wand wood farm. She slowly descended, aiming for a clear patch of ground in front of the diminutive brown one-story.

 

She looked around once she'd landed, muttering the counter-charm, waiting for the wandmaker to appear so she wouldn't trip any magical defenses, and decided that, apart from the trees, it was a very normal-looking homestead. A sign declared "Bancroft Arboretum and Nursery", which upon more stringent inspection shimmered and morphed into "Bancroft, Maker of Fine Wands and Finer Mead". Asher blinked, amused.

 

"If you're thinking it's not smart to drink and magick, I'll assure you that I don't do both at the same time," a disembodied voice said, and Asher looked around until she spotted a bright orange skirt hanging out of a Larch tree. After a few moments, the skirt, followed by a blonde head of hair, dropped nimbly from the tree, holding a branch.

 

"I thought Larch didn't make good wand wood," Asher commented, eyeing the great distance between the lowest branch and the ground.

 

"Well, that's not exactly true," Zenobia said, gesturing for her to follow as she walked toward the back of the little house. "It isn't used much because magical Larch trees are so uncommon. It took me ten years to find this one." She held up the branch triumphantly. "Not to mention it's attracted to the most boring of wizardkind, and therefore rarely gets up to anything interesting. Safest to pair it with Jackalope, otherwise it might not sell," she added, more to herself than Asher. She walked into a small shed leaning against the house, placing it somewhere unseen, and emerged again. "So, what brings you? I figured I wouldn't be hearing from you. It's been a few days."

 

"Sorry," Asher said sheepishly. "I've been busy finishing the cleaning, only now I'm done and I have a letter to send, but no way to send it." She held up the envelope lamely.

 

Zenobia smiled and waved her over. "Follow me, then. I've got a few birds, I won't miss one for a few days."

 

They walked downhill, away from the house, until they reached what looked like a large modified chicken coop, which had high, wide windows instead of a low door and ramp. She opened a two-part door and walked in.

 

Asher followed, stopping dead. "A few?" she said faintly, as the perches lining the walls were many, and full of different varieties of avian. She spotted a couple barn owls, a red-tailed hawk, other varied smaller birds she had no names for, and amazingly, a bald eagle. There was an uncomfortable rustling among the creatures as Asher entered, the familiar dislike animals had for her making itself known.

 

"Ah, yes, that's Thorn," she said, following Asher's gaze to the enormous brown and white raptor. He was about the only one who wasn't nervous, instead studying her with one exacting eye perched over a hooked and rather terrifying beak. He winged off the perch, and Asher automatically held out her arm.

 

"He's heavy," she said in awe as he lit on her arm and snatched up the letter. She stared a bit nervously at the enormous talons encircling her forearm. His head was on a level with hers, and he looked at her unblinking and unperturbed.

 

"He likes you," Zenobia said appraisingly. "And he has endurance enough for the job. Go on then, Thorn, and be careful."

 

The gigantic bird lifted off, his wingspan making it clear why the little owlery was so large, and headed straight out the east window. Asher watched him go, his large form visible for quite some time, and she would have kept watching if Zenobia hadn't grabbed her wrist.

 

"He got you," she scolded, and Asher looked down to see that her sweater was torn and bloody, and red was dripping onto the planked floor. "Damn bird, I _told_ him to be careful. Come on, we'll get you fixed up."

 

Asher was dragged to the little house and deposited in a chair in what appeared to be an apothecary, Zenobia unceremoniously Vanishing her sweater to get a look at the gash. It was nasty, four separate jagged wounds gaping at her; Asher had never fainted at the sight of blood before, but decided not to rule it out on this occasion.

 

She hissed through her teeth as the wandmaker poured what felt like a disinfectant over the wounds. It bubbled and spat, stinging brutally, and dripped off into a bucket below, the formerly pink liquid now brown after mixing with her blood. Water was next, and then Zenobia attempted to knit the gashes magically, but they didn't budge, the skin obstinately staying torn.

 

"Damn it, why isn't it working?" She stepped away to rummage in another cabinet, finally pulling out a small bottle of a brown liquid Asher recognized.

 

"Don't waste the dittany," Asher said, putting her uninjured hand on the blonde woman's arm to stop her. "Thorn is an Adept, isn't he?"

 

Zenobia looked startled, the hand holding the bottle lowering in surprise. "Yes, he's my tree scout. How did you know?"

 

Pulling down the shoulder of her shirt, she pointed at faint scratches adorning her collarbone. "Because I have one, and he gave these to me when I was young. Nothing my dad tried worked, they had to heal normally."

 

"You'll scar," the wandmaker said with dismay.

 

Asher shrugged. "I've got plenty others, it'll be among company."

 

Looking unconvinced but resigned, Zenobia gathered bandages and began gently but expertly wrapping Asher's forearm. She magically sealed the bandage at its end and sat on a three-legged stool across from Asher, looking thoughtful.

 

After a long silence, Asher asked, "What are you thinking about?"

 

"That you're too young to have that many scars," she replied, her eyes on Asher's hands.

 

Embarrassed, Asher folded her hands to hide them, but the other woman reached across to stop her, taking one of the scarred palms into her own for study. She looked up after a long moment, something strange in her expression. "What are these from?"

 

"I--" Asher's cheeks colored, and she felt suddenly ashamed as she directed her eyes to the floor.

 

Zenobia scooted closer on the stool and reached out with her free hand, lifting Asher's chin so that they were looking straight at each other. "Your eyes," she murmured wonderingly, watching them flicker and change in the candlelight. "Have they always been so many colors?" This was clearly not what she had meant to say.

 

"I was born with them," Asher whispered, not sure why she was doing so. "I--"

 

But Zenobia had leaned in and, without warning, kissed her.

 

It was a decidedly tender kiss, nearly chaste until Asher returned it, and even then it was gentle and tentative-- until it wasn't. Dimly, she felt a spark of excitement from the other woman and pulled her closer. Zenobia came willingly, slipping an arm around Asher's waist, which accidentally bumped her wounded arm. A shock of pain ran to her shoulder, startling her brain into action, and realizing quite suddenly what was happening, Asher pulled back. "Shit," she said breathlessly.

 

Misunderstanding, the wandmaker apologized, offering to look her arm over again and reaching to unseal the bandages.

 

"No, no," Asher said, guilt punching her in the gut. "That letter I sent-- it was to my girlfriend."

 

Closing her eyes and wincing, the wandmaker stood and paced a bit. "Should have known," she muttered, though not angrily, rearranging apothecary supplies unnecessarily. "The cute ones are always taken, and if they're cute and foreign, well.."

 

"I'm not foreign," Asher said amusedly, ignoring, for the moment, the shame of kissing-- rather vigorously at the end-- someone who was not Hermione.

 

"Half-foreign, then," Zenobia capitulated, pulling two bottles of honey-gold liquid out of a small icebox. "Mead? I think I need one after that."

 

Asher nodded and took the bottle, popping the lid off with her new wand. She sipped, humming appreciatively as the liquid touched her tongue."This is very good."

 

Zenobia smiled at the compliment and sat back upon the three-legged stool, studying Asher somberly. Taking a swig of her own bottle, she said, "You acted very single, at first, you know. You can hardly blame me for pressing the advantage."

 

Asher blushed and responded, "Well, I could, but I couldn't blame only you." She sighed, taking another drink of her mead and staring at the bottle. "I've no idea how to tell her. 'When I sent you the last letter, I was scratched by a bald eagle, had some very tasty mead, and kissed another woman.' Ugh."

 

Stifling a laugh, Zenobia asked, "Have you been together long?"

 

"Just over a year. I'd thought things were getting serious."

 

"Past tense," the blonde commented. "What happened?"

 

"Well, among other things, I was outed to the Ministry, nearly lost my job, villainized by the press, and I ran away to America to hide. And then you happened."

 

"Me?"

 

"You." Asher sighed. "You're very sure of yourself, and Hermione.. isn't. Not when it comes to--" She gestured between them.

 

Zenobia blinked. "A British witch named Hermione? Hermione Granger? The witch who helped Harry Potter--"

 

"That's the one," Asher said wryly, taking a large draught off the bottle.

 

"Quite a catch," she said agreeably. "I heard she's tough as nails, and smart to boot."

 

"She is," Asher admitted, "about most things. It's really not a good idea to be on the wrong end of her wand. But she's--" She trailed off, not having the words. "I've been facing this decision I don't want to make, about whether I should stay here or go back. I really don't know what to do."

 

"May I say something?"

 

"Sure."

 

"I know that I don't really know you that well, but you don't strike me as suited to living alone on the side of a mountain." Asher looked at her with surprise. "I think you crave companionship, or you wouldn't have kissed me, and I wonder at who you would become if you didn't have it."

 

"Why do you say that?"

 

"That wand of yours.." She nodded at it where it poked out of Asher's sleeve. "Roc feather is powerful, but turns as easily to Dark magic as any other type, and sometimes will lead the way down one path or another without the witch or wizard's opinion. It's capable of impressive and imaginative mischief, if let to its own devices, especially given that it's encased in pine wood. It needs direction, or it will direct itself."

 

Asher was reminded of the day she had been waiting in Minerva's office and spotted the old Sorting hat sitting on a scuffed little table. She had picked it up, and it had told her it would have put her in Hufflepuff. When Asher had asked why not Ravenclaw, the hat had said, "Oh, it would be a good fit for your intellect, but you tend toward logic when isolated, and Ravenclaw would isolate you. Your passion would combine with your logic to drive people away, and you are very obviously at your best when you are surrounded by those you love."

 

Her chest felt tight as she remembered, and she looked up to Zenobia's face, which was looking concerned. "You're probably right," she admitted, "but I am, at heart, a coward, and there are a lot of confrontations back in Scotland."

 

"You're not entirely a coward, as you were at least able to concede that you are one," the blonde witch pointed out.

 

"I suppose you're right," Asher said heavily, finishing the last of the delicious mead. "I'll almost have my decision made for me, really, if the Ministry doesn't return my wand. As unsuited as I might be to living on a mountain, I'm really not made for a life without magic. I've never been able to do any wandless, and so many potions would be lost to me…" She shook her head. "I'd have to come back here."

 

"Potions? Is that what you do?" Zenobia asked curiously.

 

"Currently I teach at Hogwarts. Or, I did, before all hell broke loose." She explained what she had found out about the prison guard and the Auror from the Ministry, and what had followed the revelation. "Potions are my life," she finished simply.

 

Zenobia looked like she wanted to say something, but hesitated, and instead said, "Well, if you do come back, I could use your expertise. As you can see from this little room I dabble myself, but I'm not very talented. I could expand my business with a potioneer on hand. I'd even offer you partner, if we got on well."

 

Asher smiled, a little sadly, but didn't say anything. A tiny bell rang in another room, and the wandmaker stood, shaking out her skirt. "That's a customer for me." On her way out, she stopped in the doorway and gave Asher a meaningful look. "You're welcome to stay, or not. I won't be upset if you decide not to-- or if you don't come back at all. Like I said before, you're welcome if you want to be." She left in a swirl of orange fabric.

 

Asher sat a while, pondering whether she should stay or not. If she stayed, she wasn't entirely sure she'd remain faithful to Hermione, and that was the deciding factor- as many difficult situations as she'd left behind, she didn't need to create another one just now. Besides, she had foolishly left her Suppression Draught back at the house, and even if she had planned on staying, it would be dangerous to remain here without it. She slipped out the back, picked up her broomstick from the lawn, kicked off the ground, and flew Northwest, toward home.

 

Instead of going straight to the house, she landed at the gully where she had first discovered her magic and sat at the edge of the stream, looking up at the mountains as the sun set. It had always been easier for her to think when surrounded by trees and wildlife, and she reflected now upon her afternoon with Zenobia Bancroft, the wandmaker.

 

She couldn't deny she was attracted to the woman, with her flamboyant style of dress and sure hands and brash honesty. Hermione was so-- so _uncertain_ at times, and that didn't seem to be a trait Zenobia possessed.

 

She knew she should have reacted more quickly to the woman's kiss, and in the opposite direction. She loved Hermione, and had for quite some time: she loved the way the brunette's mind never stopped turning; the way her bushy hair did whatever it liked without pounds of Sleekeazy; how one rarely realized how tiny she was because of the force of her personality and intelligence. No, it wasn't as if she didn't love Hermione, but...

 

She sighed and grabbed the broomstick, choosing to walk back to the house. What she hadn't been able to articulate, and really hadn't fully realized, was that though she might be a self-professed coward, she was also tired of hiding, and that's what a life in the UK had mostly been for her--- hiding her heritage, her sexuality, her past. The United States-- and Zenobia-- held the promise of a life without concealment.

 

The lights blazed on the lower floor of the house, and she instantly went on alert, as she had left with the fire as the only illumination. She shoved her new wand up her sleeve in case her visitor was from the Ministry and climbed the porch steps, wincing at the creak of the third one.

 

She opened the door quickly, forcing it all the way back, but instead of a burglar or Ministry Official, Minerva McGonagall and Hermione Granger sat at her kitchen table, with Winky dancing attendance in the form of tea and cookies.

 

 _Oh, dear,_  she thought. It was incredibly bad timing, them being here, but she forced a smile and pulled the wand back out. "I actually just sent you a letter today."

 

"I see Ms. Bancroft caught my drift," Minerva said once she'd turned around, nodding at the wand.

 

"Yes, she came by last week," Asher said, going to Hermione and pulling her into a hug, kissing her temple. She pulled back, examining the Transfiguration professor. "Long trip?"

 

"Longer than we'd expected, since you'd put up anti-apparition wards," Hermione said dryly, though she smiled as she said it. "That driveway is dreadfully steep."

 

"Sorry," Asher said, placing her wand on the table. "All things considered, I figured it would be better if I had some warning if someone came. What are you two doing here?"

 

"Mainly for a visit, though I bring tidings from the Ministry." Minerva deposited two letters embossed with government insignia in front of Asher. " _Someone_  didn't leave them a forwarding vacation address."

 

Asher grinned. "All things considered, as I said." She opened the first, from the Being Division, and breathed a sigh of relief. "They've determined, after consulting with Emery and the school board, that I am permitted to have a wand. It says to wait for word from the Wand Division, which I imagine is what this is." She slit open the second envelope and sucked in air angrily as she read, nearly growling when she let it out. "And this one says they've 'accidentally' destroyed my wand with a batch of others. That bitch." She was thinking of the sour witch who had taken her wand in the first place.

 

"They what?" demanded Hermione, snatching the letter from Asher's hands to read it herself. Minerva looked on with flashing eyes.

 

Asher explained about her interaction with the Magical Equipment official. "She's a relic of Umbridge's administration, I checked, and I'm sure she's the one who did it. Nasty creature."

 

"At least you've got another, and now you can come back," Hermione said with no small amount of relief.

 

"Yeah.." Asher said, thinking of Zenobia. "But I think I'll wait until the press has died down. How is that going, by the way?"

 

Hermione, aided by McGonagall, launched into an explanation of Rita Skeeter and the Daily Prophet's latest exploits. Skeeter, responding to Asher's trip to America, had intimated that she could be running from the authorities, and claimed she had a source who had told her that Magical Law Enforcement across the globe was keeping an eye out for her to arrest her on sight for being a fugitive. Asher had a feeling that there was a lot they weren't telling her; to her thinking, the press rarely hit on only one angle in a month's span.

 

"It's all rubbish, of course," Hermione added. "She's always made up her own leads."

 

McGonagall made a harrumphing noise and muttered something under her breath that Asher knew better than to ask about.

 

That segued into a discussion about the article Asher had read, and she pulled it out, pointing to the picture where the guard and the Auror posed. Hermione insisted that she should write to the guard, but Asher waved that off, saying that she didn't want to make him feel guilty for something he hadn't meant to do.

 

They talked of other things as well, Hogwarts gossip and Harry's upcoming post as Defence professor, until the clock chimed ten-thirty and Asher dutifully got up to take her potion. She steered Minerva toward her parents' old bedroom, opposite the basement door, and she and Hermione traipsed up the stairs to hers.

 

"I meant to ask, what happened to your arm?" Hermione said as they undressed for bed.

 

"Bald eagle got me," Asher replied, realizing quickly where this conversation might go, "as he took off with your letter. Poor thing, I sent him to your apartment and you aren't even there."

 

"It's rather bloody, isn't it? I know you know some healing magic."

 

"Yes, well, he's an Adept. They affect me strangely, not even Essence of Dittany works. No, don't unwrap it!" she scolded as Hermione tried to have a look. "It just happened today."

 

"Sorry," Hermione said, sounding hurt. "I only wanted to be sure it was wrapped properly."

 

"No, I'm sorry," Asher sighed. "I might as well get out with it. I--"

 

"Are you not coming back?" Hermione asked, alarmed.

 

"No, that's not it, now I've got permission to have a wand I'll be coming back, but.. You're going to be mad at me and I completely understand why and I'll go sleep on the couch after."

 

Hermione's eyes narrowed.

 

"I went over to that wandmaker's today, to borrow an owl. After the eagle scratched me she bandaged me up, and.. Well, and then she kissed me."

 

Hermione looked faintly murderous, but squashed it with admirable effort. "Well, it's going to happen sometimes--"

 

"And I kissed her back, until she bumped my arm…"

 

Hermione now had little expression at all except for the narrowed eyes, giving her look a chilling effect. "And just how long was it until that happened?" she questioned tonelessly.

 

"Long enough that you have every right to send me packing," Asher said, shame-faced. "I'll just grab some extra blankets from the hall."

 

"Asher Erised, you do not get to walk out of that door," Hermione said fiercely. "Am I really that expendable to you that you'd pick up with the first American witch you see?"

 

Horrified, Asher waved her hands, wincing as it jarred her forearm. "No-- God no--"

 

"Then what in the bloody blazes were you thinking? Or were you not taking your potion? Or maybe you were just so desperate that you-" Hermione cut off abruptly, realizing how mean she sounded.

 

Asher simply stood, looking at the floor. "Go on," she murmured. "I deserve it." When Hermione didn't say anything else, she picked up her wand from the bedside table and turned to leave, avoiding eye contact. "I'll be downstairs." Her already gnarled stomach twisted further when Hermione didn't ask her to stay.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the last chapter where things went right. I've removed the last two. I have re-used some of the content in my current draft, but on the whole it will probably end up quite differently.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starts the same, but ends quite differently. I'm much happier with this than the other version. Please let me know what you think!

Asher was awakened next morning by McGonagall puttering about the kitchen, teacups clinking and the kettle whistling. "Ah, there you are. Tea?"

Groggily, Asher said, "Sure." She sat up stiffly, glaring at the couch-- it wasn't nearly as comfortable as she remembered. She glanced at the stairs, but heard no movement from the second floor.

"As far as I know, she hasn't woken. I'm not sure why, it's after noon at Hogwarts."

The tea had been poured, and the tray was brought over to the low table near the couch, McGonagall perching in the recliner as she sipped hers. Asher added a few sugars to her cup and blew on it, wary; Minerva liked a strong brew, and she didn't have any milk to soften it.

"I daresay there's a reason you slept there last night," McGonagall said with little preamble.

Asher choked on the boiling tea, quickly setting the cup on its saucer. It was rare for the older woman to so baldly acknowledge Asher and Hermione's sleeping arrangements. "Yes, well," Asher said, voice a bit hoarse. "I deserved to be thrown out, so I threw myself out, after a bit of shouting."

But instead of looking intrigued, Minerva smiled. "Zenobia," she stated.

Asher blinked at her. "How--"

"We've met. She hit on me, I believe is the American term. A bold one, is Ms. Bancroft." Asher goggled. It was rather difficult for her to imagine anyone daring to flirt with Minerva McGonagall. "I hope you didn't do anything too disreputable."

"Well-- no--"

"Good. I'm sure Miss Granger will come around. Now, it's time you show me that wand."

Winky had come and gone with breakfast by the time Hermione came downstairs to find the two arguing about Quidditch and Quodpot.

"--much more high-stakes," Asher was saying.

"Yes, it's exciting, but it doesn't really require much of the athlete but size and a good broomstick," Minerva argued. "Quidditch boasts the cleverer fliers."

"Not true--" Asher began, sounding wounded, but then spotted Hermione.

Sensing the coming awkwardness, Minerva stepped in. "Good morning. Care for some breakfast before we go?"

 _Ah, shit,_ Asher thought. Of course they had to leave, but Hermione was studiously avoiding looking at her, and that wasn't how she wanted to leave things. "I'll be out on the porch," she said, taking a fresh cup of coffee out into the warm summer air.

She heard their voices through the windowpane, but she determinedly didn't eavesdrop, though her enhanced hearing made it difficult. Whether Hermione was maligning her to McGonagall or not, it was hers to do and not Asher's to know unless shared. She felt she'd been dishonorable enough without listening in to a conversation that didn't belong to her.

It was maybe half an hour before Hermione came out to join her. McGonagall left then, starting her walk down the overgrown lane to the edge of the property. It was a few minutes more before Asher could meet Hermione's eyes. There was a tired disappointment on her fine-boned face.

"It wasn't the reunion I wanted," Hermione said. "I'd missed you terribly and I just wanted something simple and.. and nice." She folded her arms and leaned against the railing. "Obviously I'm hurt, though I do appreciate you being honest as soon as we were alone. I just-- blast it, Asher, why did you have to do something so stupid?"

Asher shifted uncomfortably in the lounge chair, sitting up with a leg on each side and hunched shoulders. "I guess.. well, she'd seen the scars on my hands and she was asking about them with this weird look on her face, and I felt pretty vulnerable, I guess. I looked away and next thing I knew she was touching my face and kissing me, and it was-- I don't know why she did it, maybe to make me feel better. But it worked, for a while, until I realized that it really shouldn't make me feel better, it should make me feel worse because it wasn't you. And then it did. Feel worse." She sighed. "I'm sorry, I screwed up. I think she was right.. I don't think I'm meant to live in isolation. I think I went a little crazy without you."

Asher looked up after a moment, preparing for the angry look on Hermione's face, but instead she saw sadness. Hermione stood there, gripping her opposite elbow and biting her lip, and a sign practically flashing over her head that said "Insecure! Upset!" Asher swung her leg over the chair and stood, reaching out to comfort her, but Hermione took a step back, holding a hand out and looking as if she was about to cry.

"I think--" she started, taking a deep breath. "I think I need some time. And I don't think I'm the only one."

Asher felt a pain in her chest. "Hermione, please. _Please,_ it was stupid and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it, no matter how I was feeling."

"And you did it anyway," came the quiet response. "I'm not sure that we're working out, doing things the way that we are. I need some time, and you should take some too, to-- to do whatever it is you need to do here." This last came out unsteadily, and the look she was giving Asher was full of some hidden meaning.

She walked into the house, leaving Asher on the porch feeling a bit light-headed. If she wasn't mistaken, Hermione had just broken up with her.. but what had she meant by 'doing things the way that we are'?

"Hermione, wait!"

But when she entered the house, Hermione was no longer in it; she had gone.

Since it had all begun, since the Ministry letter had arrived in Hermione's quarters, Asher had raged, stewed, been depressed, and been violently ill about her circumstances, but she hadn't cried. She felt it now, coming on like an autumn storm, all dark clouds and switchy winds.

She didn't know why, but she walked down the short hall to her father's laboratory door. The padlock was still in place; she had no idea where her father had kept the key. She took out her new wand and gently touched it to the keyhole, testing for a charm or hex, but whatever magic had once been in it had now faded. She cast a quick _alohomora_ and it popped open, unresisting.

She swallowed hard against the stone in her throat and opened the door, finding that the steps were clean and dust-free. She walked down cautiously, flipping on the electric lights. Her father had grudgingly installed them after realizing what a convenience they were, but they were dim, and each bulb was encased in a yellowed globe.

She expected ruin and mess, but the lab was as tidy and neat as the stairs; Asher suspected some sort of stasis spell. Her guess was confirmed when the phial of Clabbert pus she found wasn't dried out, and upon examination, the various herbs hanging to dry were still green at the edges. Apothecary and recipe volumes lay open here and there on the tables. A cauldron, amazingly, still brewed its contents. Everything was just as Darius Fudge had left it, locking up to go to bed over a decade ago.

It was that thought that started the flood. Asher sat heavily, miserably in her father's desk chair, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the arms, her mind wrapped up in the moment she had found her father cold.

She remembered, so clearly, that moment. She had known the second she'd laid eyes on him that he was dead; no sleeper slumbered that soundly. And she'd known in that same instant that her mother was, somehow, responsible for him being dead. It seemed so long ago, and also a few moments, sitting in her father's chair in her father's lab with his life's work surrounding her.

She blinked the tears clear from her eyes when they fell on a small leather-bound notebook perched at the back of the desk-- her father's journal. She reached for it hesitantly, caressing the supple hide cover with reverent fingers. This was where he kept his experiment notes, his observations, and she almost felt like an intruder as she picked it up and cracked the worn spine.

It contained entry after entry, from years of testing and inventing, the Suppression Draught featuring heavily. And then she had reached the final entry.

_29 June 1994_

_Subject 2 shows strong fatigue at the application of the latest form of the Suppression Draught that does not affect Subject 1. Human interference? Age? Currently testing with addition of dragon's bld and adj of acnte lvls,. List ingred abv. Kntgrss shld not be adj., cld cause intrction._

Asher's eyes had cleared a bit as she'd paged through the journal, but grew damp again at the abbreviations that suddenly appeared on the entry from the day he died. She had pestered him to get out of the lab so that they could go gather herbs; it had been a beautiful day.

Her eyes roamed over the entry again, snagging on "currently testing", then snapping to the cauldron on the corner table. She ran a quick eye over the ingredient list, and then, curious, she walked over and raised her wand to do a quick circle over the simmering liquid. "Resolvere," she whispered, and ghostly images formed in a mist over the cauldron. There, over the edge, was aconite, knotgrass shimmering next to it. So was dragon's blood, represented by green droplets.

She hurried back over to the desk, snatching up the journal and studying the carefully listed instructions for brewing. The dragon's blood extended the brewing time by several hours, and she strained to remember when, exactly, her father had left the laboratory. Her agile mind racing, she ran some quick calculations and probabilities in her head, then tossed them all aside as she realized there was only one reason he would have cast the stasis spell: He had needed the final ingredient. Her blood.

Eyes narrowing, she lifted a hand and took a bundle of Flitterbloom off of a hook; when she let go, it hung in the air. The spell was still active.

Closing her eyes and turning her wand in a slow figure eight pattern, she felt for the spell-- it permeated the air like a weighted cloud, and Asher wasn't sure how to remove it. Almost on its own, her wand guided her toward a quick slash through the middle of the pattern, and the Flitterbloom fell to the floor.

Quickly, she picked up the silver Potioneer's knife from beside the cauldron and added a neat slice to the scars on her hands. Carefully, cupping her fingers around the wound, she watched seven drops fall and pulled her hand away before any more could spill in. With her other hand, she stirred the cauldron three times widdershins and removed the spoon.

She waited. Any moment now..

The potion turned silver.

She put out the fire under the cauldron one-handed, walking unsteadily over to the small washbasin. She pumped some water in, then washed her wound and knit it together with a quick back-and-forth of her wand. As always, it scarred immediately. She turned back to the cauldron, staring at it pensively.

She knew that the dragon's blood and the modification of the aconite were not the only changes to the potion. The version she brewed needed ten drops of blood, not seven. She had a few ideas on what that meant, but wouldn't be able to confirm any of them until she tested it. Taking down a ladle and seven phials, Asher bottled the potion before it could become useless with exposure to air, and decided she would take it tonight.

She spent the next few hours delving into her father's notes more meticulously, finding that he had been adjusting the potion for some time before his death. He had even tested a few on her, though she hadn't known it at the time. His goal, it seemed, was to lighten its tiring effects.

She checked the time-- just after three, long enough for the other version to be out of her system. She unstoppered one of the bottles and drank. It was smoother than the other version, and she didn't feel the immediate fatigue that was usual. There was only one way she knew of to test it-- she had to go somewhere and be around people.

Asher emerged from the dimmed light of the laboratory into a Colorado afternoon in full swing, and she blinked, wincing. Light streamed through the western windows from the sun.

"Mistress," began a squeaky voice, sounding hesitant. "I is knowing you is not wanting to be disturbed, but there is being a lady on the porch. I is telling her you is busy, but she is deciding to wait."

 _Hermione,_ she thought, but when she stepped out, it was Zenobia. The older witch was leaning forward on the porch rail, hands bracing her as she stared full-on into the afternoon sunlight. A breeze stirred her messy waves of hair, sun filtering through it and illuminating golden, straw-colored, and yellow strands. She looked fierce and fearless, standing there, as if daring the sun to burn her.

"I'm not completely certain I should be here," the wandmaker began, still looking out over the mountains, "but I had a most interesting visitor to my shop. Wand of cedar, eleven inches exactly, with a dragon heartstring core."

"Hermione," Asher murmured, recognizing the wand Hermione had paired with after the war and wondering why on earth she had gone there.

"We had the strangest conversation," Zenobia continued. "I wasn't entirely sure at the time what it was about, but now that I've looked back, I believe she was suggesting--" and here she turned about to look at Asher with a probing gaze-- "that I should seduce you."

Asher could only look at her with bewilderment as she leaned on the house, thinking back to her conversation with Hermione. "She can't have. I mean, she told me--" But what, precisely, had she told Asher? Something like, 'I think you need to take some time to do whatever it is you need to do here.' It had been more halting, more unsure, but that was essentially what she had said. There were several ways she could interpret it, of course, but with Zenobia standing in front of her adding her two cents, the other thing Hermione had said began to fit. 'I don't think we're working out doing things the way we are.'

"She spoke to me of nature, the human kind and otherwise," said the wandmaker, stepping closer. "She asked me if I thought someone who was not quite human could be expected to follow human norms." Another step, and she was looking down into Asher's eyes. "I told her I supposed that depended on what the nonhuman part was made of, what it was meant for." Half a step, and they were so close, as close as they'd been the day before in the apothecary. "She said something I'm not sure I was supposed to hear, something I almost couldn't make out. And then she told me that she wouldn't hold someone's nature against them, even if it hurt, because that would be denying them a part of themselves."

Zenobia's fingers were caressing Asher's cheek, pushing dark hair behind her ear. Asher swallowed, her skin buzzing with the contact. "What did she say?" Asher asked, her voice unintentionally hoarse. "The thing you weren't supposed to hear?"

The blonde witch leaned in, her cheek against Asher's, and whispered in her ear. "Desire." Asher felt lips on her neck and her knees trembled.

"Oh," she said weakly, feeling the strangest sensation: her inner hunger was waking. Always, after the potion, that part of her was deadened, unresponsive, but now it seemed almost to stretch, and she felt herself change.

She knew her eyes were going black, the pupils dilating to an extreme, and Zenobia felt something, too; she had frozen in the act of pressing Asher against the house, then pulled back to look at her, eyes wide. Asher looked cautiously at the other woman, wary of the power, but the usual sensation of falling away, of that part of herself taking over, was absent.

Slowly, Asher drank in the scent of the body against her: Sawdust and honey, laced with something she couldn't identify. She could almost smell the sun in Zenobia's golden hair as the breeze caused it to tickle her face. She sensed excitement, trepidation, amazement from the other woman, the emotions seeming to hover in the air, nearly touchable. Normally this would mean danger, but she knew, from the feeling of all of it, that she was in control. A joy she hadn't known could be possible welled inside, but so did a yearning, and she reached up to tangle fingers in blonde waves, feeling hypnotized. "It's alright," she said softly. "I won't hurt you."

She pulled Zenobia down for a kiss, and lost her breath; her desire had swelled, enveloping them both, and she felt the wandmaker sag against her, then lean more firmly, pushing Asher into the siding with her hips. With engrossed fascination, she felt her aura eddying around Zenobia's, and when she prodded it, the other woman moaned low in her throat.

Asher felt her shirt being pulled up, and they separated for a moment while it was slipped off over her head. Then she felt teeth in her shoulder, and moaned. Zenobia's lips found hers again, hungrily; Asher's fingers had slipped up the wandmaker's lithe back, tracing over muscle and sinew. Another sliver of aura reached out to the blonde, making her back arch.

“God,” Zenobia burst out as they came up for air. She leaned her forehead on Asher's shoulder, her breathing ragged. She lifted it after a moment, her hand tracing down Asher's neck as she regarded her with fascination. “Is it always like this?”

“No,” Asher said, suddenly feeling sick at the thought. It wasn't like this with Hermione, because she hadn't taken this new potion around her. And no matter what Hermione had said to the wandmaker, they shouldn't be doing this.

She could feel splinters from the wooden siding settling in her shoulders as she slid out from between Zenobia and the house but ignored them, more concerned about how easy it had been to forget Hermione while in Zenobia's arms. Her instinct had, in a moment, swept over all but the most immediate of thoughts. And what thoughts-- it was almost as if she had held Zenobia's heart in her hands, and could make it beat as quickly as she liked.

“I've done it again, haven't I?” Zenobia said wryly, though she looked a little shaken, arms folding loosely around each other. “I've intruded.”

“Maybe.” Asher could still feel the prickle of her skin where it had touched the other woman, a wave of pure wanting. Even a couple feet away, she could feel the pull of a willing body. Shut up, she told that part of herself, but it wasn't listening: Even now, the brief moments of rational thought were receding, her instinct threatening to give in to the desire. Usually suppressed by the potion she took, her senses were keenly aware of Zenobia's chi, a central point of pure energy, bright and inviting. She quickly crossed the porch, but that did nothing to dim the knowledge of its existence.

“I'm sorry. I should probably go,” the blonde said.

“Yes,” Asher said, knowing it came out harshly, but unable to force anything else out; most of her concentration was being employed keeping herself from turning back around and seizing Zenobia by the waist. It wasn't as difficult to resist as it could be when she was completely free of the potion's effects; in fact, the knowledge that she couldn't accidentally hurt anyone with it made it worse. It was pure force of will that kept her in the same place as she listened to Zenobia taking her leave. As the wandmaker increased the distance between them, Asher relaxed by degrees, directly corresponding with her fading sense of the woman's life energy.

She had always thought of her hunger as a creature that lived inside her, a sort of loud, demanding, uninvited houseguest. But after her most recent encounter with it, after feeling the true force of her desire, she was forced to acknowledge that it was part of her, much like her enjoyment of muggle spirits or delight in reading. Just because she had cut off all awareness of it didn't make it separate. It did mean that she had never learned how to live with it.

Asher wished she had brought her mother's letters; she had gone through them before with a sort of detachment. The weekends where she had gone without the potion had been enlightening, but as she had refrained from actually engaging with anyone during them, she had lacked a complete understanding of what she was.

Now she did understand, and it frightened her.

She knew she ought to talk to Hermione, but was reluctant. How could she hold a conversation, with her desire lapping at her awareness? I'm here, it said, don't forget. And how could she forget? It had caused her to repeat the circumstances that instigated their fight.

More than ever, she missed her bird. Amon would have no compunctions in telling her exactly what ought to be done, and she might feel the braver for it, if annoyed. But she was alone in the hills of Colorado, except for Winky, who, while a competent housekeeper and delightful cook, would be no use in this situation.

Well, she could do one thing while Asher thought. She set the elf to picking the wood slivers out of her back, Winky scolding her the entire time. And before she lost all nerve, she walked to the edge of her property and Disapparated.

* * * * *

Hermione arrived at the little London flat she had sublet for the summer, Apparating into the disused basement, and promptly wished she hadn't left Asher so abruptly. There was nothing for it now; if she went back she would likely find her place taken by Zenobia Bancroft.

Yes, she had suggested it-- she hadn't been able to say it explicitly, but got the distinct feeling that the American witch was smart enough to hear what was behind the words-- but that didn't mean it didn't give her a slightly sick feeling. As cloying and hackneyed as it sounded, Asher was her first real love, and she wasn't sure she was cut out for sharing.

But she had thought long and hard the night before, after Asher had made her confession. One of the things she had done after they had gotten back together was to research succubi, though this time she hadn't hidden it. She had learned many things while she had done this, and had used this information to take a step back from the situation and look at it from an outsider's point of view:

Fact: Asher was part-succubus.

Fact: Succubi had traits meant for persuading humans to have sex with them, so they could feed.

Fact: Succubi evolved to seduce multiple partners, to allow them to be nomadic and prevent detection.

Fact: No succubus ever interviewed (though these were rare) had ever cleaved to one person for very long.

When Hermione had reviewed these facts, she realized that it was genuinely unreasonable to ask Asher to be with only her, especially if she attained her goal, which was to control herself without the Suppression Draught. The potion stopped her awareness and use of her abilities, and therefore kept her from acting the way a succubus might, and without it, she would feel the desire she was made for.

She sighed as she climbed the stairs to the second floor flat, digging her keys out from her jacket. Really, she should have realized sooner that this was how this was going to go, but even though she'd had all the information in front of her, she had deliberately not over-thought their relationship. It had been difficult, but she had managed to enjoy it, while it lasted.

 _Listen to yourself, thinking like it's over,_ she scolded, turning the key and pushing into the little one-room she'd rented. She closed the door, then froze; turning slowly, she discovered that none other than the Minister for Magic was leaning against her kitchen counter, making it look even tinier than it already was.

"Minister," she said cautiously, eyes flicking around the room. "Shouldn't you have bodyguards?"

"They're posted at the ends of the hall. And surely we've known each other long enough for you to call me Kingsley." He smiled warmly at her from far above her head. "Now, as I've been waiting some time, I'd like to chat about your friend, Ms. Erised."

Hermione swallowed, then, with far less shaking than she expected, sat at the counter stool. "What about her?"

"Well, first I'd like to apologize for issuing a warrant for her arrest. I'd apologize to her in person, if I knew where she was," he said with amusement, "but you'll have to do. It was a political reaction, not a personal one, and it's a reaction I've reversed, albeit quietly. Even if she fails her probationary period, she will not be taken into custody."

"Thank you," Hermione said, relieved.

"But I am also here to pass on a warning. I have great reach in the Aurors' department, having been one of them once, but there are still those who might act against her. Once she's back at Hogwarts, she will need to conduct herself with the utmost care."

Hermione looked at him a moment, then opened her bag and pulled out the picture she had clipped from Asher's newspaper. She held it up to him and pointed to the British Auror Asher had indicated. "Like this one?"

Kingsley took the clipping and studied it, nodding. "Yes, like her. Lavinia Quackenbush. She's pureblood, or at least, you can't prove she's not, and her family are one of our more… vocal contributors. Old money, rich beyond imagining, and not above buying votes for their own agenda. She's become a bit of a problem employee."

"We think she's the reason the Ministry found out about Asher."

Kingsley was already nodding his agreement before she'd gotten halfway through her sentence. "She brought it to her department head, saying it was an anonymous tip, right after we'd sent her to the Emporium. Careful of her, Hermione. She's got it in for your friend."

"Why?"

He shrugged, setting the clipping down on the counter. "I don't know. Her family is typical of the old ones; they had a hand-- or should I say a purse-- in Umbridge's anti-werewolf legislation a few years back. But this," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "this seems like more. Just tell her to be cautious."

He stood from his leaning position, then held out his hand. Hermione shook it, then followed as he walked to the door. He turned the knob, then looked at her curiously. "I expected you to join the Ministry after you graduated, you know."

Hermione smiled at him. "Oh, it's on the list."

He smiled back, his eyes creasing at her tone. "I suspect you'll have my job someday." And he opened the door, whistled for his guards, and left.

Hermione shut the door after him, not bothering to wonder how he had gotten in; the man was a former covert Auror. She did wonder why he had waited so long to speak to her. It was nearly eight. She filed away everything he had said for later and prepared a cup of tea, then pulled a roll of film from her bag. Grinning at it, she began to set up a temporary darkroom, but was interrupted by a knock at her door. She crossed to open it, prepared to ask Kingsley if he'd forgotten something, but was confronted with a face she hadn't expected: Asher's.

Wordless at the look on the other woman's face, she stepped back in silent invitation. Asher's face was luminous, but her expression was haunted, and she gave Hermione a wide berth as she entered. Her shoulders were hunched as she took up residence on one of the stools at the little counter.

Hermione waited, but only silence followed. She couldn't tell what kind of mood the black-haired woman was in, except that it was troubled; Asher's hands were clasped round one another, and she wasn't making eye contact. “I hadn't expected to see you today,” she said, hoping to prompt a response.

The one she received wasn't what she expected, either; though Asher didn't raise her eyes or even, in fact, move, the words came with surprising force. “Did you tell that woman to have sex with me?”

Confronted so directly with the idea she had-- with much subtlety-- implanted in Zenobia's head, she spluttered a bit. “Well, I-- That is--” Embarrassed, she mumbled, “I suppose I did.”

Now Asher did turn around, her face pleading and angry. “For God's sake, why?”

Hermione, taken aback by the vehemence and despair of this query, did not immediately answer. She wondered just what, exactly, had happened; Asher was holding her own middle like it was keeping her from flying out of her seat, and her expression was a strange mixture of fear, desperation, and determination.

“I thought--” she started, the words tripping over themselves in her throat. “You just-- You're a bloody _succubus!_ ” she finished, hands thrown up, feeling that this should explain everything, but knowing that it didn't.

“I'm bloody _half,_ ” came the growled reply, “and this new potion isn't letting me forget it.”

“New potion?” Curiosity overruled Hermione's indignation at the tone of the statement. “What are you talking about?”

As Asher haltingly told her of the venture into the basement workshop, as she related the tale of the new potion and her reaction to Zenobia's advances, the hunched posture and strained words began to make sense. The Potions professor had had much the same affect the night she had nearly-- for lack of a better term-- eaten Hermione: She was struggling to control herself.

“Oh, hell,” Hermione sighed, wishing she were sitting down so she could flop her head into her hands. Even as she felt incredible shock and jealousy that Zenobia had dared to do the thing she herself had suggested, she was relieved that Asher had stopped it, but also a little bit afraid. She remembered how it had felt to be at the center of a swirling, hungry energy; it wasn't an experience she wanted to repeat.

She felt out of her depth at these thoughts. None of this was going as planned. She had started the ball rolling, envisioning herself being as enlightened and accepting as a person could be: Asher would sleep with other people, and Hermione would not be jealous; Asher would learn how to be a succubus, and Hermione would support her. Instead, she found that she wanted to shove the old potion back down Asher's gullet and then promptly curse her would-be lover.

“Hell,” she said again, pressing her lips together. Despite the thoughts dancing wildly through her head, she couldn't think of anything else to say.

Asher had relaxed somewhat as the story had come out, and her voice was quieter when she asked, “Hermione, is there someone else? Besides me?”

“What? No!”

“Then why on earth would you tell someone else to sleep with me, after telling me that you wanted a break?”

“I-- It's--” Cheeks flaming, Hermione struggled to force the words out. “I did a lot of thinking, that night you slept on the couch.”

She paused for a long moment, and Asher sighed. “I had gathered that,” she said slowly, the sentence ending with an unspoken _And?_

“Well,” Hermione continued, forging on with more bravado than she felt, “I thought I'd been rather unreasonable, asking you to only be with me. Succubi aren't supposed to be with only one person, you know, and I thought maybe I should be respectful of that.”

Asher let out a breath that might have been a laugh if she hadn't been so tense. “And you couldn't have just _said_ that?” She stood suddenly, leaning on the short counter with her arms straight so that she was nearly doubled over. “You should have just talked to me. Sending that woman over just then was incredibly bad timing.”

“As if you ever talk to me about anything so sensitive,” Hermione sniffed.

“I get to it eventually,” Asher replied, her voice firm, eyes locked onto the counter, “but I've _never_  done something so high-handed.”

“It wasn't meant to be!”

Asher whirled around, her face intense. “But it was. I could have taken time to figure out the effects of this new recipe, but instead I'm thrown headlong into a situation where the only thing that stops me from giving in is gone.” Her voice lowered, shaking. “I _knew,_ in the deepest part of me, that with this potion, I couldn't hurt her. That it would be impossible to kill anyone. And that makes me want to use you, or anyone else who might be willing, like a toy.”

The pure unthinkability of the concept made Hermione's jaw drop. “You wouldn't do that.”

“When I didn't feel it I wouldn't,” Asher murmured, gaze dropping to somewhere beyond her feet. “You don't understand how _good_  it feels.” She had felt like a god, or a puppet master, and all too eager, and not terribly in control. “I could have made her beg, if I wanted, without hardly touching her. I could have taken her to the edge and back with barely more than a kiss.” Her eyes when she lifted them were dark and haunted, pupils dilated with hunger. “I could do it to you, too, and I want to, so badly that it scares me.”

Hermione's brain had been rationalizing all through the monologue, saying things like _well, if sex is the base of her power,_ and _of course she's not used to it yet,_ but at the sight of those eyes, as black as they had been that night by the lake, her thoughts were obliterated by fear.

Asher swayed like she'd been struck. “I need to leave.” Talking about the sensations had awakened her smoldering desire again, and Hermione's fear only stoked the flames. It was taking everything she had to keep her ravenous aura close to her skin, to prevent it from questing out and touching the woman across the room. If it did that, she wasn't sure she could stop it. Not with Hermione.

She headed rapidly for the door, arms wrapped around each other. She didn't have the concentration to Apparate, not now. She would have to get to the Ministry and see if there were any scheduled Portkeys. Perhaps she could rent a broom to get to one, if she needed to. All she really knew was that she had to get out of the flat.

She managed to make it out of the little apartment without losing herself, and she called back over her shoulder, “I'll write.”

* *** * ** ** * ** *

There were no Portkeys to the States until the next day, so Asher found a room at a grubby little pub that she had frequented in her undercover days. It was as derelict and shabby as it had been then, and quite deserted; few magical folk wanted to associate with a place that was now known as a former Death Eater haunt.

The little man who had run it then was there still, and he tipped his hat to her and gave her a knowing smile. _I'm not part of your little club,_  she thought at him disgustedly, but didn't say it aloud; the place was practically empty, a desirable trait after the bustle and energy-filled crowd at the Ministry.

God, she'd been stupid to go there. The public area, full of people even late in the evening, had been a smorgasbord of temptation, and after the encounter with the receptionist-- thankfully, a male one-- she was sure an article would soon be appearing in the Prophet, citing how addled the notorious succubus had become. She had stumbled out like a drunkard, her senses overcome with the richness. And without the original potion, there were those who stared, their fascination an aphrodisiac she'd had a devil of a time ignoring.

 _How did my mother live with this?_ The world was newly alive, a hunter's paradise, and she hungered. The old potion, seen from this altered view, now seemed more of an anchor than the shackles it had represented before. How could letters from a dead woman be enough to help her navigate this new swell of wanting? She needed to get out of Britain; if she lapsed, she could be jailed.

Settling at the sticky bar, she ordered a stout and laughed bitterly at herself. _Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it._  She had asked the universe for a way to guarantee that she couldn't kill Hermione while also allowing her to be free of the fatigue of the potion, and she had received it-- with a hell of a lot of extra baggage.

It wasn't completely her father's fault; bless him, he had done his best to make her life better, but he couldn't have known what it would do. And damn him, too, because he had never allowed her to learn from someone who actually knew what they were about. Actually, she realized as she finished off the beer, it was his fault. He had married her mother, knowing what she was, and still forced her, and her daughter, to suppress it. Had that been hubris, or fear?

 _Definitely pride,_  she thought after a few moments. It was a family disability: Her mother and father both had been bursting with it, and her uncle was the worst of the lot.

Asher waved off the offer of a second beer and went up to her room; she might not be ready for bed, on her American schedule, but the pub was about to close its doors for the night. Having left a wake-up request with the barkeep so she wouldn't miss her Portkey, she laid on her back on the dusty bed, staring up at the cobwebbed ceiling and reviewing the conversation with Hermione.

She regretted speaking so harshly, but it had only been the truth when she'd accused Hermione of being high-handed. Asher realized that she had experience with this trait: they did say that girls tended to be attracted to younger versions of their fathers. Hermione Granger and Darius Fudge: Brilliant, kind, and meddling as yentas. It stung to mar the memory of her father with that, but it wasn't thought out of spite.

 _“You're a bloody succubus!”_   Yes, and more of one than she had thought. There was a fierce, dark joy in being what she was, and she could hardly fail to realize the draw of it. She had stated it in such innocent terms to Hermione-- the desire to play with people like toys-- but if she had said it more honestly, it was the lure of power over others. And she couldn't hurt anyone--physically-- while doing it; she kept coming back to that thought. How wonderful, and terrible. For years, that had been her leash, the one horrifying concept that kept her in control: That she might harm someone.

Now it was gone.

It might be easier to just chuck both potions, rather than deal with the knowledge that she might actually want to use people in that way. To fight that perverse desire every time she touched someone... Asher knew enough about herself at this point in her life to admit, privately at least, that she couldn't resist it forever-- might not be able to resist it more than the once she already had. Power, when her young life had been scarred by the absence of it? When she had spent the whole of her adult years striving for it? No, it would be too dangerous to keep taking the new potion, but she knew before she even asked herself that she could never go back to the dullness of life with the original.

Damn that perceptive wandmaker, too; she had predicted such a tendency, even if she had ostensibly been talking about a wand at the time. _“It turns as easily to Dark magic as any other type, and sometimes will lead the way down one path or another without the witch or wizard's opinion.”_

The only way to be sure that she would never hurt anyone was to live with the fatigue and slow-mindedness. The reverse was true as well. And the path to discarding both was also the one that might abandon her hard-won humanity.

Even now, Asher wanted to be human, but wasn't sure what she would see in the Mirror anymore; she had tasted more, and she craved that, too, because as disconcerting and overwhelming as it had been to cradle Zenobia's desire in her hands, she had felt whole.


End file.
